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BERTHA'S    HOME.     Page  9. 


ISettfja  Wltmtx's  WLisfy 


A  CHRISTMAS   STORY. 


BY 

•      M.  L.  B. 


"  Lord  have  mercy  upon  us,  and  write  all  thy  laws  in  our  hearts 
we  beseech  Thee.  —  " 


BOSTON: 

E.  P.  DUTTON  AND   COMPANY. 

NEW  YORK:  HURD  AND  HOUGHTON. 

1865. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  irf  the  year  1863,  by 

E.    P.   DtJTTON   AND   COMPANY, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachu- 
setts. 


riverside,   Cambridge: 
stereotyped  and  printed  by  h.  0.  houghton. 


0£ 


CONTENTS. 

— ♦— 

CHAP.  PAQB 

I.  Bertha's  Home 7 

II.  Bertha's  Wish    .        .        .                .  14 

III.  "How  to  do  it" 21 

IV.  Little  Mary's  Home         ...  29 
V.  "Whose  Lost  have  I  found"     .        .  44 

VI.  Tim  turns  Policeman       ...        56 

VII.  Another  Chase 69 

VHI.  Berty  runs  away  for  the  last  Time     78 

IX.  The  Hospital 86 

X.  Mrs.  Grey's  Suspicion      ...        95 

XL  The  Chapel  Service,  and  what  came 

of  it 103 

XH.  The  Wish  fulfilled    .        .        .        .119 


BERTHA  WEISSER'S  WISH. 


CHAPTER  I. 

bertha's  home. 

T  was  a  dreary,  wet  October 
day,  and  drawing  towards  the 
twilight.  The  dull  leaden-look- 
ing sky,  the  wet  slippery  pave- 
ments, the  chilly,  cross,  uncom- 
fortable passengers,  gave  to  even  the  brightest 
and  most  cheerful  streets  of  the  great  city  a 
very  dismal  look ;  and,  as  for  the  meaner 
ones,  with  their  rows  of  dreary  little  shops 
and  tumble-down  houses,  their  reeking  gut- 
ters and  dripping  wayfarers,  they  were  utterly 
forlorn. 

In  one  of  the  meanest  of  these  forlorn 
streets,  in  the  back  attic  of  one  of  these 
tumble-down  houses,  a  little  girl  sat  looking 
out  at  the  window.  It  was  not  a  pleasant 
prospect  in  the  brightest  of  weather,  that 
little  crowded  court,  upon  which  everybody's 


8  BERTHA'S    HOME. 

back-door  opened,  and  where  everybody's 
rubbish  was  collected ;  but  the  child  was  not 
looking  at  the  court.  Neither  did  she  seem 
to  be  looking  at  the  sky,  though  the  little  pale 
face  was  turned  wistfully  upward ;  she  rather 
seemed  to  be  thinking  intently  upon  some- 
thing which  occupied  all  her  mind,  and  shut 
out  for  the  moment  the  dreary  court  below, 
the  dismal  sky  above,  and  even  the  poor 
little  room  around  her. 

A  very  poor  little  room  it  was,  indeed, — its 
only  furniture  being  a  ragged,  ill-made  bed, 
a  rickety  stand,  two  broken  chairs,  and  an 
old  painted  chest,  near  which  a  rusty  stove- 
pipe came  up  through  the  floor  and  passed 
out  again  at  the  low  roof.  But  all  the  room 
was  brightened  somehow  by  a  group  of  four 
merry,  rosy  children,  who  sat  upon  this  chest, 
their  little  bare  legs  dangling,  and  their  damp 
garments  steaming  in  the  heat,  laughing 
and  chattering  together  in  a  queer  mixture 
of  German  and  English,  which  none  but  an 
emigrant's  child  could  understand. 

"  Bert !  "  cried  the  elder  of  the  two  boys, 
glancing  towards  the  window ;  "  what  are 
you  looking  for,  Bert  ?  —  the  moon  ?  " 


BERTHA'S   HOME.  9 

The  children  all  laughed  at  this  sally,  but 
"  Bert "  paid  no  attention  ;  seeing  which,  the 
boy  sprang  down  from  the  chest  and,  with  a 
vigorous  pull  at  the  flaxen  curls,  turned  the 
wistful  face  round  towards  him.  "  Bert ! " 
said  he,  .■"  don't  you  know,  if  we  don't  pick 
the  rags  soon,  it'll  be  quite  dark,  and  then 
Moses  will  be  shut  up,  and  we'll  get  nothing 
for  das  Brod  to-morrow  ?  Wake  up !  wake 
up!" 

The  girl  made  no  answer,  but,  with  a  weary 
sigh,  picked  up  an  old  basket  filled  with  wet 
rubbish,  and,  turning  the  contents  out  upon 
the  floor,  began,  with  her  brother's  help,  to 
sort  them  carefully  into  separate  little  heaps  ; 
for  Bertha  Weisser,  my  dear  children,  the 
dreaming  girl  by  the  window,  and  the  heroine 
of  my  little  story,  was  nothing  more  nor  less 
than  a  poor  little  German  rag-picker. 

Poor  and  little  as  she  was,  however,  Bertha 
had  arrived  at  a  dignity  which  few  of  my 
young  readers  have  reached,  I  hope ;  for  Ber- 
tha was  the  head  of  this  little  household, — 
the  one  whom  alone  all  the  children  were 
bound  to  "  mind,"  and  to  whom  also,  alas ! 
they  were  bound  to  look  for  their  daily  bread  ; 


10  BERTHA'S   HOME. 

for  Berty's  father  had  died  at  sea,  and  her 
mother,  not  taking  kindly  to  the  foreign  land, 
had  pined  away  soon  afterward,  leaving  her 
helpless  family  to  get  their  own  living  as  best 
they  could.  « 

And  the  best  way  Bertha  could  think  of — 
for  she  was  not  very  wise,  being  only  eleven 
years  old  —  was,  to  gather  the  rags  and  pa- 
pers, the  old  bits  of  iron  and  copper,  and 
nails  and  other  rubbish,  from  the  gutters,  and 
sell  them  to  Moses,  an  old  Jew  who  lived 
near  her  lodging ;  or  else  sometimes  to  sweep 
the  crossings  with  a  stump  of  broom,  looking 
the  while  so  forlorn  and  piteous  that  kind 
passengers,  when  they  were  not  in  too  great 
haste,  would  fling  her  a  penny. 

This  was  a  very  poor  way  to  get  a  living, 
as  you  may  suppose ;  and  a  very  poor  living 
Berty  would  have  gotten  by  it  even  if  she 
could  have  spent  all  her  earnings  upon  her- 
self, which  was  by  no  means  the  case  ;  for 
there  were  Lina,  and  Gottlieb,  and  Rosa,  and 
little  Fritz,  the  baby,  all  younger  and  there- 
fore more  helpless  than  herself;  and  Berty 
must  care  for  them  all ;  for  had  she  not  prom- 
ised her  dead  mother,  and  were  they  not  her 


BERTHA'S  HOME.  H 

little  family,  the  only  ones  this  side  the  broad 
ocean  who  had  kindred  blood  of  hers  in  their 
veins  ? 

To  be  sure,  old  Biddy  Flanagan,  to  whom 
the  house  belonged,  let  them  have  the  back 
attic,  where  their  mother  had  died,  rent-free, 
because,  as  she  said,  it  was  but  a  poor  place, 
and  she'd  no  heart  to  turn  out  "  the  mother- 
less orphants  "  ;  then,  too,  Gottlieb  was  grow- 
ing a  sturdy  lad,  with  very  sharp  eyes  for  old 
nails  and  horse-shoes ;  and  besides,  the  house- 
people  often  gave  Fritz  a  penny  when  they 
met  him '  toddling  about  the  passages ;  for 
Fritz  was  a  pretty  baby,  —  bright-eyed  and 
rosy-cheeked,  and  sweet  enough,  in  spite  of 
his  rags,  to  open  the  hearts  of  people  less 
kind  than  Biddy  Flanagan's  poor  lodgers. 
And  beyond  all  this,  —  which  Berty  counted 
great  good-fortune,  —  an  old  lady  in  the  next 
street,  who  had  known  their  mother  in  the 
dear  old  Father-land,  sent  them  every  week 
a  full  meal  of  broken  victuals.  So  Berty 
thought  this  world  a  very  kind  world,  though 
her  poor  little  heart  was  full,  from  morning 
till  night,  with  care  for  die  Kleinen,  as  she 
lovingly  called  the  children  in  her  pleasant 
German  tongue. 


12  BERTHA'S   HOME. 

And  Berty's  heart  had  been  fuller  than 
usual  these  few  weeks  past ;  for,  besides  all 
the  care,  it  had  held  a  great  wish  in  it,  —  a 
wish  that  filled  it  almost  to  bursting ;  and  yet 
this  wish  was  such  a  very  impossible  one, 
that  Berty  could  think  of  but  one  way  — 
and  that  a  very  impossible  way  —  of  getting 
it  fulfilled :  —  "If  but  a  fairy  would  come 
along, —  a  fairy  godmother  such  as  Mrs. 
Flanagan  sometimes  told  them  about,  when 
she  was  good-natured  and  not  too  busy, — 
and  offer  Bert  one  of  three  wishes ;  O  then  !  " 
But  New  York  was  not  "  ould  Ireland,"  as 
Biddy  often  assured  them,  and  so,  alas !  the 
fairy  never  came.  Still  the  wish  held  its 
place,  and  swelled  the  poor  child's  heart  all 
the  more,  perhaps,  that  she  never  told  it  to 
any  one. 

Sometimes  she  would  lie  awake  far  into 
the  night,  staring  with  wide-open  eyes  at  the 
blank  darkness  of  her  attic,  hugging  little 
Fritz  in  her  arms,  and  thinking  what  if  she 
had  a  fairy  godmother,  and  what  if  she  should 
come  and  bring  the  wish,  until  all  the  dark- 
ness was  full  of  glorious  visions,  and  poor 
little    Berty,   the    German    rag-picker,   lying 


BERTHA'S   HOME.  13 

there  upon  her  bed  of  straw,  in  Biddy  Flan- 
agan's back  attic,  dreamed  dreams  as  sweet 
as  any  which  visit  the  soft,  guarded  pillows 
of  you  happy  children  who  fall  asleep  with 
father's  good-night  blessings  in  your  ears, 
and  mother's  good-night  kisses  on  your  lips. 
Yes,  the  dear  Heavenly  Father,  who  bends  so 
lovingly  from  his  Eternal  Throne  to  listen  to 
your  evening  prayer,  heard  Berty's  German 
Vaterunser  also,  and  watched  over  her,  per- 
haps, all  the  more  tenderly  because  she  had 
no  one  else. 


CHAPTER   n. 


BERTHAS     WISH. 

T  was  one  night  after  they  had 
been  to  visit  the  kind  old  Ger- 
man lady,  their  mother's  friend, 
that  this  wonderful  wish  came 
into  Berty's  heart. 
Madame  Hansmann,  as  this  old  lady  was 
called  by  the  people  of  Biddy's  house,  was 
not  yet  weaned  from  the  dear  Vaterland,  as 
she  called  her  native  country,  and  liked  noth- 
ing sc  '-ell  as  talking  of  its  kindly  ways  and 
pleasant  customs  to  any  one  who  would  lis- 
ten. She  knew  no  English ;  but  the  homely 
German,  which,  I  dare  say,  sounds  harsh  and 
unpleasant  enough  to  you,  was  music  in  Ber- 
tha's ears ;  for  it  was  the  language  in  which 
she  had  always  heard  her  mother  speak. 
Berty  had,  too,  or  fancied  she  had,  a  dim 
remembrance  of  some  of  the  scenes  which 
the  good  old  lady  described,  especially  of 
the  Christmas  trees,  and  birthday  feasts,  and 


BERTHA'S   WISH.  15 

the  concerts  in  the  Volksgarten,  or  public 
park,  of  the  city  where  her  parents  had 
lived. 

It  was,  as  I  said.,  one  night  after  a  visit  to 
old  Madame  Hansmann  that  Berty's  wish 
came  into  her  heart.  She  was  sitting  in  her 
attic,  striving  patiently,  by  the  light  of  a  can- 
dle-end which  Biddy  had  given  her,  to  fash- 
ion a  frock  for  little  Fritz  from  an  old  one  of 
her  own.  She  was  not  a  very  skilful  seam- 
stress, and  her  materials  were  none  of  the 
best ;  so,  as  you  may  imagine,  she  was  much 
too  busy  at  first  to  pay  much  attention  to 
the  children's  chatter,  as  they  frolicked  and 
tumbled  upon  the  old  straw  bed  in  the  cor- 
ner. Presently,  however,  having  banned  out 
her  work  to  her  mind,  her  attention  was 
attracted  by  their  talk. 

"  Wasn't  it  nice,"  said  Lina,  "  what  she 
told  about  the  Christmas  trees?  And  Ber- 
ty  's  seen  one  ;  but  we  never  did." 

"  Poh  !  "  cried  Gottlieb,  turning  a  very  con- 
temptuous somerset ;  "  poh !  I  have  :  but  I 
never  told  though  before.  It  was  last  Christ- 
mas,— that  night,  you  know,  I  ran  away  from 
Bert.      We  went  to  the  avenue,  Martin  Fi- 


16  BERTHA'S   WISH. 

scher  and  me,  and  we  saw  one.  It  was  in 
that  big  stone  house  where  the  Dutchman 
lives  —  Herr  Westermann.  It  was  very  cold, 
and  we  stood  upon  the  sidewalk,  and  the 
wind  blew  so  hard;  but  the  blinds  were 
open  just  a  bit,  and  we  saw  it !  O  my  !  — 
but  wasn't  it  jolly!  The  great  green  tree 
most  up  to  the  top  of  the  wall;  and  the 
lights  blazing  on  every  limb ;  and  the  gold 
and  silver  nuts  shining ;  and  the  apples 
and  oranges  and  candy!  —  and  O,  flowers, 
too  !  and  hobby-horses !  and  dolls  ! —  and  all 
the  children  dancing  round  and  laughing! 
I  tell  you,  you  never  saw  anything  so  fine,  — 
never !  never !  " 

"Did  you  see  the  Christ-child,  Lieb  ? " 
asked  little  Rosa,  in  a  tone  of  awe. 

"  I  saw  a  little  blue  angel  with  gold  wings, 
quite  up  in  the  top  of  the  tree,"  answered 
Gottlieb  ;  "  only  its  face  was  turned  the  other 
way." 

"  That  was  He  ! "  cried  Rosa,  clapping  her 
hands  joyfully.  "  That  was  He !  O  how  I 
wish  I  could  see  Him !  Mina  SchaefFer  says 
it  is  He  brings  all  the  things,  —  only  she  says 
he  will  never  come  to  us,  because   we   are 


BERTHA'S    WISH.  17 

poor,  —  and  it  is  only  the  rich  ones  He  takes 
them  to." 

"  Fie,  Rosa,"  said  Lina,  reprovingly ;  "  don't 
you  remember  what  die  liebe  Mutter  said, 
how  Jesus  (He's  the  Christ-child,  you  know) 
was  very  poor,  and  how  the  Holy  Virgin 
laid  Him  in  a  manger  when  He  was  born.  I 
don't  believe  He  would  forget  us  because  we 
are  poor." 

"  Will  He  come,  then,  do  you  think  ?  "  asked 
Rosa,  eagerly.  "  Will  He  come  this  Christ- 
mas, if  we  are  very  good  ?  Perhaps  we  were 
naughty  last  year,  —  I  don't  remember,  —  and 
die  Mutter  said  He  don't  love  us  but  when 
we  are  good.  Let's  be  very  good  now,  and 
see  if  He  will  come." 

"  I  don't  believe  it  is  the  Christ-child  does 
it,"  said  Gottlieb,  who  had  been  lying  quite 
still,  thinking,  for  some  time.  "  I  don't  believe 
it  is  the  Christ-child  does  it  at  all.  Mina 
Schaeffer  knows  nothing,  and  the  little  blue 
angel  looked  just  like  a  doll.  I'll  bet  you 
it  was  Herr  Westermann  bought  all  those 
things,  and  Frau  Westermann  put  them  on 
the  tree  ;  —  only  she's  a  little  woman,  I  know, 
and  the  tree  was  very  high.     But,  any  way, 


18  BERTHA'S    WISH. 

I  don't  believe  it's  the  Christ-child  does  it. 
Martin  says  it  isn't.  They  had  a  tree  to 
Martin's  house  once,  and  he  peeped,  and  he 
thought  he  saw  his  mother ;  but  then  their 
tree  was  little,  and  Herr  Westermann's  was 
ever  so  big." 

"  Perhaps  Frau  Westermann  had  a  lad- 
der," said  Litfa,  coming  to  her  brother's  assist- 
ance in  his  puzzle.  » 

"A  ladder!  to  be  sure,  so  she  must!"  cried 
Gottlieb,  much  relieved.  "  Yes,  you  may  be 
certain  she  had  a  ladder." 

"  But  the  tree,"  put  in  little  city-bred  Rosa ; 
"  where  would  he  get  the  tree  ?  " 

"  Pshaw,  stupid ! "  answered  her  brother, 
impatiently ;  "  don't  the  trees  grow,  and  could- 
n't he  cut  one  and  bring  it  home  on  a  dray  ?  " 

"  But  wouldn't  the  policeman  catch  him 
then  ?  "  asked  poor  puzzled  Rosa,  whose  only 
idea  of  trees  was  of  those  in  the  city  parks. 

"  But,  Rosa,  there  are  woods,"  explained 
Lina,  —  "  great  fields  full  of  nothing  but  trees, 
—  that's  in  the^  country.  Mina  SchaefTer 
went  there  once  to  visit  her  cousin,  and  she 
told  me.  People  may  cut  them  if  they  like, 
and  there  are    no    policemen ;    only   I  don't 


BERTHA'S    WISH.  19 

think  Herr  Westermann  could  bring  one  on 
a  dray  because  it  is  so  far,  Lieb.  I'll  tell 
you,  though  :  I  think  they  bring  them  on 
the  railroad  to  the  markets,  and  then  the  peo- 
ple can  buy  them.  I  saw  some  once  —  very 
tall  and  fall  of  green  prickles,  and  Biddy  said 
they  were  for  Christmas  trees.  I  guess  Herr 
Westermann  bought  his,  Lieb." 

"  Well,  perhaps  he  did,"  answered  Lieb, 
sleepily  ;  "  and  a  ladder,  —  O  yes,  a  ladder ! 
You  may  be  sure  it's  the  father  and  mother 
do  it,  Lin  a." 

"  And  we  have  no  father  —  no  mother," 
said  Rosa,  with  a  sigh.  "  We  have  nobody, 
—  at  least  we  have  only  Bert." 

"  And  Bert  could  not  make  a  Christmas 
tree,"  added  Lina,  sadly. 

"  Yes,  Bert  tould !  "  cried  little  Fritz,  giv- 
ing Lina  a  vigorous  punch  with  his  stout 
little  fist.  Fritz  had  been  lying  broad  awake 
listening  to  all  this  wonderful  talk  without 
understanding  it  in  the  least ;  but  he  firmly 
believed  that  his  Berty  could  do  anything, 
and  so  he  felt  bound  to  defend  her  from 
Lina's  assertions.  u  I  tell  'ou,"  said  he, 
"  Bert  tould,  —  Bert  tould  had  a  laddy  and 


20  BERTHA'S    WISH. 

make  a  kissmas  tee  for  Fitzy,  and  the  bu 
andel  tould  hep  her." 

It  was  just  here,  at  these  words  of  little 
Fritz's,  that  the  wonderful  wish  came  into 
Bertha's  heart,  and  set  it  throbbing,  so  that 
the  poor  child  forgot  all  about  her  trouble- 
some work,  —  noticed  no  longer  the  children's 
talk,  or  the  waning  candle ;  but  just  sat  with 
her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap,  till  the  children 
were  fast  asleep  and  the  candle  quite  burnt 
out,  thinking  and  thinking  ;  then  crept  away 
to  her  place  by  Fritzy's  side,  and  lay  awake 
far  into  the  night,  thinking  and  thinking  still. 

Perhaps  you  can  guess  now  what  was 
Bertha's  wish;  at  least,  if  you  cannot,  you 
must  be  almost  as  stupid  as  was  Gottlieb 
with  his  ladder. 


CHAPTER   III. 


"  HOW    TO    DO    IT. 

S  the  days  passed,  and  Christ- 
mas-tide drew  nearer,  Berty's 
wish  gained  fuller  and  fuller 
possession  of  her  childish  heart. 
To  get  a  Christmas  tree  for 
these  poor  little  children,  who  had  no  father 
or  mother,  who  had  "  only  Bert,"  —  to  make 
them  for  once  perfectly  happy,  as  happy  as 
rich  Herr  Westermann's  boys  and  girls,  — 
and  to  do  this  all  herself,  —  how  delightful, 
and  yet  how  impossible  the  project  seemed. 
How  bright  and  cheerful  the  old  garret 
would  appear,  lighted  up  by  the  glories  of 
such  a  tree  as  the  Westermann's,  for  Bertha's 
dim  German  recollections  were  wonderfully 
freshened  by  Gottlieb's  descriptions  ;  how 
her  mother  would  smile  from  her  sweet 
rest  in  Paradise  upon  the  little  pale  girl 
to  whose  feeble  care  she  had,  with  such  a 
failing    heart,    committed    her    little    ones; 


22  "HOW   TO   DO   IT." 

how  sweetly  her  father  would  sleep  in  his 
bed  there  under  the  sea,  if  he  knew  how 
happy  his  darlings  were  made. 

Then  the  gifts,  too.  Oh,  how  Berty's 
imagination  revelled  in  those  gifts  !  Of 
course,  there  must  be  the  blazing  tapers, 
and  the  gold  and  silver  nuts,  and  the  ap- 
ples, and  oranges,  and  candy  ;  but  there 
must  be  also  —  what  ?  —  ah,  a  little  cart  for 
Fritzy,  and  —  oh  yes,  a  whole  row  of  pew- 
ter soldiers,  and  a  whistle,  and  a  rattle  ;  — 
only  think  of  a  baby  who  had  never  had  a 
rattle !  Then  there  must  be  a  doll  for  Rosa, 
and  perhaps  a  cradle  to  rock  it  in ;  and  Lieb 
must  have  a  drum,  for  he  so  dearly  loves 
to  make  a  noise,  and  perhaps  a>  tin  sword 
too,  and  a  soldier's  cap  ;  —  then  he  might 
"train"  with  the  other  boys  upon  the  street, 
perhaps  even  be  Captain  of  a  Company  : 
how  Lieb  would  like  that !  And  Lina 
must  have  a  set  of  dishes,  for  Lina  was 
such  a  tidy  little  housekeeper  she  would  be 
sure  to  like  that  best  of  all.  And  Berty  — 
ah !  Berty  would  have  done  it ;  surely,  that 
would  be  fun  enough :  Berty  was  the  little 
mother ;  surely,  that  was  joy  enough  for  her. 


"HOW  TO  DO  IT."  23 

O  yes !  it  was  easy  enough  to  arrange  all 
that;  it  was  easy  enough  to  think  what  to 
get ;  but  how  to  get  it  —  that  was  quite 
another  thing.  So,  whenever  this  trouble- 
some question  came  up,  Berty  was  fain,  for  a 
long  time,  to  put  it  out  of  her  head.  But  at 
last  the  simple  child  bethought  herself  that 
this  question,  "  How  to  do  it,"  was  by  far 
the  most  important  question  of  the  two.  If 
the  Christmas  tree  was  ever  to  be  anything 
more  than  a  beautiful  dream,  this  question 
must  be  settled  first  of  all.  And  so  she  set 
herself  resolutely  to  consider  it. 

The  fairy  godmother  of  Mrs.  Flanagan's 
tales  Was,  as  I  said,  the  first  thought ;  but 
Bertha,  having  been  born  in  Germany,  in- 
stead of  Ireland,  could  never  feel  quite  cer- 
tain that  she  had  a  fairy  godmother.  Biddy, 
to  whom  she  applied  in  her  perplexity,  knew 
nothing  about  German  fairies ;  she  could 
only  speak  confidently  about  the  "  good  lit- 
tle people"  of  her  own  green  island,  who 
were  but  too  fond  of  children,  as  she  knew ; 
for  had  not  her  own  husband's  first  cousin 
had  a  child  carried  ofT  by  them,  changed  in 
its  cradle  for  a  fairy  babe,  —  a  strange  little 


24  "HOW   TO   DO   IT." 

being,  which  never  grew  older  or  larger,  but 
remained  always  a  merry,  silly  child.  Berty 
did  not  like  this  view  of  the  subject  at  all : 
but  for  the  Christmas  tree,  she  would  have 
been  relieved  to  know  that  there  was  no  such 
person  about,  for  she  had  no  mind  to  have 
her  Fritzy  exchanged  for  any  fairy  folk.  Ah, 
if  she  would  but  bring  the  Christmas  tree, 
and  then  fly  away,  and  never,  never,  come 
back  any  more !  But,  even  if  she  had  such 
a  guardian,  how  could  she  be  sure  that  it 
had  not  been  left  in  the  "  old  country,"  along 
with  the  rest  of  their  household  treasures  : 
the  donkey,  the  goat,  the  pet  kid,  the  pink 
china  shepherdess,  the  painted  tea-set,  and 
the  great  old  pewter  tankard,  which  she 
dimly  remembered. 

Again  she  applied  to  Biddy  :  —  did  fairies 
ever  emigrate  ?  "  Whisht,  child ! "  answered 
Mrs.  Flanagan  ;  "  how  can  I  tell  ?  Sure,  the 
fairy  folk  are  very  wise,  and  is  it  Hkely 
they'd  fash  themselves  with  crossing  the 
salt  wather  ?  And  Ameriky  's  but  a  wild 
counthry,  wid  snakes,  and  bears,  and  Injuns, 
—  not  tame  and  tidy  like  ould  Ireland;  and 
the  weeny  peoole  could  never  bide  in  cities. 


"HOW  TO  DO  IT."  25 

They  must  have  their  green  rings  to  dance 
upon,  and  all  that.  Troth,  though,  I  did  see 
a  place  in  the  park  whin  we  wint  there  the 
day,  so  trim  and  green  I  tould  Mike  it 
looked  a  likely  spot  for  the  good  folk ;  but 
thin  there's  the  p'leecemen.  Whisht,  child, 
how  can  I  tell  ?  And  why  need  ye .  be 
talkin'  so  much  of  them  ?  Sure,  Berty,  they 
don't  like  it ;  and  it's  not  good  to  vex 
them." 

So  at  last,  all  things  considered,  Bertha 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  this  fairy  god- 
mother was  much  too  uncertain  a  personage 
to  be  trusted  with  such  an  important  and 
difficult  matter  as  her  Christmas  tree.  But 
she  could  not  manage  alone,  —  how  could 
she  ?  It  was  almost  impossible  for  her,  with 
all  the  help  she  had  from  the  kind  world,  to 
get  food  enough  for  all  those  children  to 
eat,  and  clothing  enough  for  them  to  wear : 
how  could  she,  whose  only  living  was  gain- 
ed by  picking  up  what  other  people  threw 
away  as  worthless,  hope  to  indulge  in  this 
luxury  of  giving,  which  few  of  the  people 
around  her,  so  much  better  off  than  herself, 
could   afford  ?     No,  she   could    never   do   it 


26  "HOW   TO   DO   IT." 

alone.  Who  then  would  help  her  ?  Not 
Biddy  :  she  was  much  too  poor  and  too 
busy  to  bother  herself  with  such  a  matter. 
Not  Madame  Hansmann:  she  might  be  will- 
ing, but  her  cross,  beer-drinking  son,  with 
whom  she  lived,  and  of  whom  she  stood  in 
such  terror  that  she  never  permitted  the  chil- 
dren to  come  to  her  except  when  he  was 
absent,  would  never  allow  it.  Who,  then, 
would  help  her?     She  had  no  one  else. 

"  No  one  else  !  "  It  was  to  this  sad  con 
elusion  of  all  her  hopes  and  schemes  that 
Berty  had  come  upon  the  evening  when  my 
story  begins,  when  she  sat  by  the  window, 
looking  up  at  the  dull  rainy  sky.  It  was 
this  dreary  thought  which  made  her  turn 
back,  with  such  a  weary  sigh,  to  her  un- 
pleasant work  at  Gottlieb's  summons.  Poor 
Berty !  the  rags  had  never  seemed  so  filthy, 
the  bits  of  iron  never  so  rusty,  the  whole 
basket  of  odds  and  ends  never  so  worthless, 
as  they  did  that  night.  She  had  no  sympa- 
thy with  Gottlieb's  rejoicing  over  his  two 
horse-shoes,  no  patience  with  Lina's  linger- 
ing over  the  bits  of  an  illustrated  news- 
paper;  and,  when    she    crept   into    her   bed 


"HOW  TO  DO  IT."  27 

in  the  darkness,  after  Gottlieb  had  returned 
from  his  nightly  chaffer  with  "  Moses,"  the 
Vaterunser  was,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  forgot- 
ten. 

"  No  one  else !  "  What  was  it,  then,  that 
put  into  Berty's  mind,  as  she  lay  there 
awake  in  the  darkness,  brooding  over  her 
fruitless  plans,  the  remembrance  of  that  old 
talk  of  the  children  which  had  given  rise  to 
them  ?  What  was  it  made  her  recall  that 
sweet  thought  of  little  Rosa's,  that  it  was 
the  Christ-child  brought  the  gifts,  —  or  that 
still  sweeter  faith  of  Lina's,  that  Jesus  would 
never  forget  them  because  they  were  poor. 
What  was  it  ?  Oh,  my  children !  rather, 
Who  was  it?  Who  but  that  Friend,  the 
best  and  dearest  Who  watches  over  us  all, 
even  while  we  forget  Him,  and  showers 
upon  us  new  blessings,  even  while  we  are 
unthankful  for  those  He  has  already  sent. 

Jesus  would  not  forget  them :  they  had 
no  father,  no  mother;  but  they  still  had 
Him.  I  cannot  tell  you  with  what  a  flash 
of  joy  and  hope  this  thought  filled  little 
Bertha's  lonely  heart.  I  suppose  you  could 
never  fully  understand  it  until,  like  Bertha, 


28  "HOW  TO  DO  IT." 

you  had  u  no  one  else " ;  which,  God  grant, 
may  never  be  your  case ;  for  it  is  a  hard 
trial,  this  having  no  one  else,  though  it  is 
an  inestimable  blessing  to  have  Him.  And 
so  Berty  found  it  when  she  rose  from  her 
bed,  and,  kneeling  once  more  by  the  win- 
dow, with  her  face  turned  toward  the  sky, 
laid  all  her  cares  and  hopes  and  wishes  at 
His  feet. 

And  I  cannot  think  that  Berty  was  wrong 
or  foolish  in  this,  even  though  her  trouble 
was  about  such  a  little  thing ;  for  I  am 
sure  that  He  who  cares  for  the  sparrows, 
and  who  has  provided  so  many  beautiful 
things  for  us  to  enjoy,  cares  even  for  our 
slightest  pleasures,  and  helps  us  to  gain 
them  when  they  are  right. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


LITTLE    MART  S    HOME. 

PON  that  same  October  even- 
ing, another  little  girl,  near  Ber- 
tha's age,  sat  by  the  window, 
looking  out  into  the  twilight. 
It  was  no  dreary  back-court, 
however,  which  met  her  eye,  but  a  broad, 
well-paved  street,  lined  with  stately  houses, 
and  a  quiet  park,  where  the  graceful  willows 
drooping  round  the  fountain  still  showed  a 
tinge  of  green,  and  the  elms  and  maples 
still  looked  gay  in  their  autumn  livery  of 
crimson  and  gold. 

And  the  scene  within  presented  as  strong 
a  contrast  to  poor  Bertha's  surroundings  aa 
did  the  scene  without.  The  cheerful  parlor, 
with  its  rich  curtains  and.  soft  carpet,  its 
glowing  grate  and  pleasant  pictures  and 
comfortable  easy-chairs,  was  very  unlike  that 
dismal  attic ;  but  the  gazer  at  the  window 


30  LITTLE   MARY'S   HOME. 

seemed  to  give  very  little  heed  to  its  bright- 
ness. She,  too,  was  looking  up  at  the  cloudy 
sky,  and,  with  her  pale  little  face  and  deep 
mourning  -  dress,  made  as  sad  a  picture 
through  the  plate-glass  window  as  did  poor 
ragged  Bertha  behind  her  smoky  panes. 

Presently,  however,  as  a  footstep  sounded 
along  the  pavement  and  up  the  steps,  the 
pale,  sad  face  lighted  up  and  turned  eager- 
ly toward  the  door.  A  handsome,  merry- 
looking,  young  gentleman  came  briskly  in, 
shaking  a  tiny  shower  of  rain-drops  from  his 
hair  and  dress.  w  Were  you  counting  the 
rain-drops,  Polly  ?  "  said  he,  "  or  looking  for 
the  moon  ?  " 

"  No,  cousin  John  ;   I  was  only  thinking." 

"  Only  thinking !  "  said  cousin  John,  wheel- 
ing the  most  inviting  easy-chair  up  in  front 
of  the  glowing  grate.  "  Well,  come  here  and 
sit  with  me,  and,  if  you  must  stare  at  some- 
thing, let  it  be  at  the  fire :  it  is  a  much 
more  agreeable  object  than  that  mizzly  sky. 
And  so  you  were  thinking,  Polly  ?  I  hoped 
you  were  watching  for  me." 

"  I  was  wishing  for  you,  cousin  John. 
But    1  wasn't   exactly    watching,   because  I 


.■^  HP1 


MARYS   HOME.     Page  30 


LITTLE  MARY'S   HOME.  31 

was  thinking  of  them ;  "  —  and  the  child 
clasped  her  hands  nervously,  and  turned 
her  face  up  to  him  with  a  sorrowful  look, 
which  was  sadder  than  tears. 

A  shadow  came  over  the  young  man's 
pleasant  face ;  and  he  stooped  and  kissed 
her  forehead,  as  he  placed  her  on  his  knee. 
"  You  shouldn't  sit  here  alone  in  the  twi- 
light, Polly,"  said  he ;  "  it's  not  good  for 
you.  Where  are  the  babies  ?  " 
"  "  Grandmamma  does  not  like  them  to  stay 
in  the  parlor,  you  know  :  they  make  such  a 
litter ;  and  she  wants  it  tidy  when  you  come 
home  ;  and  Mrs.  Evans  says  I  sha'n't  be  al- 
ways in  the  nursery." 

"  Grandmamma  mustn't  sacrifice  you  to 
my  old-bachelor  notions,  puss.  I  had  rather 
stumble  over  a  dozen  hobby-horses  than  to 
find  my  little  Polly  sitting  here  alone  with 
such  a  dismal  face." 

"  I  like  it  to  be  neat  for  you,  too,  cousin 
John,"  said  cousin  John's  little  Polly,  as  he 
drew  the  kind  caressing  arm  closer  round  her  ; 
"  and  I  don't  think  Grandmamma  would  have 
made  the  rule  ;  but  the  last  time  they  were 
in   here,  Jamie  got  the  poker,  and  rode  upon 


32  LITTLE  MARY'S   HOME. 

it  all  round  the  room.  He  called  it  his  gee- 
gee.  Look,  what  a  black  mark  he  made  in 
the  carpet.  Nancy  scrubbed  it  ever  so  long 
this  morning,  and  it  won't  come  out ;  and 
the  black  was  all  over  his  new  scarlet  frock, 
too.  Then  Jeannie  climbed  on  a  chair,  to  get 
the  dollies,  —  she  thinks  those  marble  busts 
are  dollies, —  and  she  fell  and  bumped  her 
head.  Mrs.  Evans  says  it  will  be  black  and 
blue  for  a  month.  Oh,  how  angry  she  was  ! 
She  said  they  were  spoiled.  Sylvie  never 
said  so;  and  Sylvie  let  me  stay  with  them 
as  much  as  I  liked.  Poor  Sylvie !  "  —  and 
the  child's  voice  sank  into  a  tone  of  sad 
complaint. 

"  Mrs.  Evans  is  a  bit  of  a  tyrant,  I 
know,"  answered  cousin  John,  cheerfully ; 
"  but  she  is  very  fond  of  the  twins,  and  of . 
their  big  sister  too,  I  can  tell  you.  But 
where's  Grandmamma   to-night  ?  " 

"Aunt  Emily  came  and  took  her  home  to 
tea.  She  asked  me,  too ;  but,  oh,  cousin 
John,  they  do  pity  me  so  much,  and  ask  so 
many  questions  about  it, —  all  those  old 
ladies,  —  that  I  can't  bear  it.  But  she  said 
you  were  to  come,  and  I  was  to  tell  you  the 


LITTLE  MARY'S   HOME.  33 

instant  you  came  in,  but  I  forgot.  Shall 
you  go  ?  " 

"  Shall  I,  Polly  ?     I  leave  you  to  decide." 

Oh,  cousin !  will  you  ?  And  may  I  tell 
you  to  stay  ?  I  want  you  so  much  :  only  I 
don't  wish  to  be  selfish  ;  and  aunt  Emily 
said  you  and  Grandmamma  were  dreadfully 
moped  with  us  children." 

"  Are  we  ? "  said  cousin  John,  smiling. 
"  I'm  much  obliged  to  aunt  Emily ;  I  never 
should  have  guessed  it  without  her  help.  I 
thought  it  was  very  nice  to  have  a  little 
Polly  to  welcome  me  home  every  evening, 
and  to  be  company  for  Grandmamma  all  day ; 
and  I  am  sure  the  house  was  never  so  lively 
as  it  is  since  Jemmy  and  Jenny  came.  1 
should  have  said,  now,  if  any  one  had 
asked  me,  that  it  was  aunt  Emily's  tea-par- 
ties which  moped  us ;  but  then,  of  course, 
she  knows." 

"  I  don't  believe  you  are  moped  at  all," 
said  Polly,  energetically ;  "  you  are  always 
so  bright  and  merry,  or,  when  you  are  sad, 
it  is  not  in  a  stupid  way.  I  wonder  at 
you  sometimes,  cousin  John.  You  are  just 
like  me,  —  that  is,  I  mean  you  have  no  father 

3 


34  LITTLE  MARY'S  HOME. 

and  mother;  and  you  have  not  even  the 
twins ;  —  you  have  only  Grandma  in  all  the 
world,  and  yet  you  seem  so  happy,  while  I 
can  do  nothing  but  cry." 

"  Only  Grandmamma !  Why,  Polly,  I 
should  not  be  so  very  poor  in  friends,  even 
if  you  were  right.  Grandma  counts  for  a 
great  deal  with  her  Johnny,  I  can  tell  you. 
But  I  thought  myself  richer  than  that.  I 
thought  I  had  you,  my  little  cousin,  and  the 
twins.  Don't  you  mean  to  give  me  any 
share  in  the  twins  ?  " 

"  Oh,  cousin  John  !  I  didn't  mean  that!" 
cried  the  little  girl,  very  earnestly.  a  I'm 
sure  I  love  you  better  than  anybody  in  the 
world,  —  at  least  now,  —  and  Jemmy  and 
Jenny  are  always  calling  for  '  Cuddy.' 
They  never  call  papa  or  brother  now ;  and 
nurse  won't  let  me  put  them  in  mind,  be- 
cause she  says  it  does  them  no  good  and 
only  makes  me  cry.  Oh  no!  I  did  not 
mean  that.  I  meant  people  that  belong  to 
you,  —  people  that  you  have  a  right  to." 

"  And  I  insist  that  I  have  a  right  to  you, 
Polly,"  said  the  young  gentleman,  pressing 
Polly  very  tight  in  his  arms.     "  But  I  know 


LITTLE  MARY'S  HOME.  35 

what  you  mean,  puss,  and  I  won't  tease 
you  any  more.  Indeed,  I  have  been  wishing 
to  talk  with  you  a  little  about  this  for  some 
time  ;  and,  now  we  have  begun  it,  perhaps  I 
had  better  say  my  say.  I  know  very  well 
how  sad  it  is  to  be  an  orphan,  and  I  have 
seen  the  time,  at  first,  when,  like  you,  1 
could  do  nothing  but  cry ;  so,  1  don't  mean 
to  set  myself  up  for  an  example ;  but,  my 
little  Mary,  there  is  one  thing  which  you 
and  I  must  both  remember,  and  which 
ought  to  help  us  very  much,  and  that  is 
this  :  whatever  our  trials  are,  they  are 
sent  by  One  who  knows  much  better  than 
we  do  what  is  good  for  us,  and  for  those  we 
love  ;  and  whatever  our  blessings  are,  they 
come  to  us  straight  from  His  hand.  If  we 
believe  this,  —  as  I  try  to  do,  as  I  hope  you 
also  try  to  do,  —  it  will  make  us  afraid  to 
murmur  at  the  one,  and  ashamed  to  be  un- 
thankful for  the  other,  —  will  it  not  ?  " 

"  Perhaps    so ;    I  suppose  it  ought,"  said 

Mary,  slowly  ;  "  but,  oh,  cousin  John,  it  is  so 

''  very  hard.     You  are  a  man,  and  you  are  so 

very  good  you  would   be    sure  to  feel  just 

right ;  but  I  am  only  a  little  girl,  and  it  is 


36  LITTLE  MARY'S   HOME. 

so  very  hard,  so  very  different.  You  and 
Grandma  are  very  kind,  but,  oh,  I  want  papa 
so  much,  and  mamma,  and  Ned  !  Oh,  cousin, 
you  don't  know!  It  seems  sometimes  as 
if  my  heart  would  break  !  " —  and  the  child 
leaned  her  head  against  her  cousin's  shoul- 
der, and  wept  as  if  her  heart  were  really 
breaking. 

The  young  man  soothed  her  very  tenderly, 
and  waited  patiently  until  her  tears  were 
dried ;  then  he  said,  gently,  "  My  darling  must 
not  think  I  mean  to  blame  her,  but  only  to 
help  her  bear  her  trouble  better.  I  know 
it  is  sad^  very  sad,  to  lose  so  many  dear 
friends  at  one  blow ;  but  Polly  must  count 
up  her  blessings  as  well  as  her  trials  :  she 
has  not  been  left  quite  helpless  and  friend- 
less, as  so  many  poor  children  are,  by  this 
same  fearful  Providence." 

"  That  is  what  nurse  is  always  saying," 
answered  Mary,  a  little  impatiently  ;  "  but  I 
can't  see  that  it  makes  my  trial  any  easier. 
I'm  sure  it  only  makes  me  more  wretched 
to  think  of  other  people  being  so  miserable." 
"  I  suppose  it  does  have  that  effect," 
answered  cousin  John,  thoughtfully,  "  unless 


LITTLE  MARY'S  HOME.  37 

one  tries  to  help  them.  Yes,  Polly,  strange 
as  it  may  seem,  the  only  way  to  lighten  our 
own  burdens  is  by  helping  other  people  to 
bear  theirs." 

There  was  not  a  shadow  of  vexation  in 
his  tone ;  and  yet,  somehow,  Mary  could  not 
help  feeling  that  her  cousin  wras  not  quite 
pleased  with  her,  —  perhaps  because  she  was 
not  quite  pleased  with  herself.  She  was 
conscious  of  being  unthankful  for  her  remain- 
ing blessings  ;  she  knew  she  had  felt  inclined 
to  murmur  at  her  lot,  and  to  indulge  her 
grief  without  any  regard  to  the  comfort  of 
those  around  her.  But  she  felt  she  had  great 
excuse,  —  as,  indeed,  she  had,  if  any  one  can 
be  said  to  have  excuse  for  doing  what  is  not 
quite  right ;  for  this  little  Mary's  trials  were 
no  common  ones. 

I  dare  say  my  young  readers  have  already 
guessed  that  Mary  was  an  orphan,  but  I 
hope  they  are  not  familiar  enough  with  sor- 
row to  have  guessed  in  what  a  terrible  form 
her  bereavement  came.  Perhaps  some  of 
you  may  remember,  however,  to  have  heard 
or  read  of  the  fearful  pestilence  at  Norfolk  in 
Virginia,  a  few  years  ago,  when  the  yellow 


38  LITTLE  MARY'S  HOME. 

fever  passed  through  the  city  and  carried  off 
its  victims  from  every  house.  It  was  at 
Norfolk  that  b'ttle  Mary's  parents  lived ;  and 
it  was  this  terrible  disease  which  had  robbed 
her,  in  a  single  week,  of  her  father,  her  mother, 
her  eldest  brother,  and  Sylvie,  her  faithful 
black  nurse.  Poor  little  Mary !  well  might  she 
shudder  and  turn  pale  as  she  remembered  that 
fearful  day  when  she  found  herself  alone  with 
the  twin  babies,  with  only  those  strange  doc- 
tors and  nurses  to  care  for  them.  Well  might 
she  cling,  too,  to  the  dear  cousin  who  had 
braved  the  pestilence  to  come  to  their  relief. 

The  grandmother's  house  was  of  course 
open  to  the  orphans.  They  had  already 
been  with  her  two  months  when  my  story 
begins,  and  the  twin  babies  had  become 
quite  wonted  to  their  new  nursery,  grown 
very  fond  of  "  ganny,"  as  they  called  her, 
very  familiar  with  "  Cuddy,"  as  they  styled 
young  Dr.  Grey,  and  seemed  to  have  adopt- 
ed Nurse  Evans  into  the  place  of  their  lost 
Sylvie  ;  but  little  Mary  was  still,  I  am  sorry 
to  say,  not  only  very  sad  but  very  discon- 
tented. She  had  taken  up  a  sad  complain- 
ing way,  brooding  over  her  grief,  and  refus- 


LITTLE  MARY'S  HOME.  39 

ing  to  be  comforted ;  contrasting  her  grand- 
mother's quiet,  sober  ways  with  her  mam- 
ma's sweet  brightness,  and  Mrs.  Evans's 
strictness  with  poor  Sylvie's  indulgence. 

Dr.  John  was  the  only  person  who  could 
soothe  or  divert  her  ;  for  she  chose  to  believe 
that  he,  an  orphan  himself,  left  from  child- 
hood to  his  grandmother's  care,  was  the  only 
one  who  could  fully  sympathize  with  her 
great  trouble.  She  was  very  fond  of  him; 
and  now,  though  a  little  vexed  at  his  seeming 
reproof,  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  dis- 
pleasing him  :  so,  after  a  moment's  thought, 
she  took  his  hand  caressingly  in  both  her 
own,  and  said,  "  I  am  so  little,  cousin  John, 
and  so  silly,  I  don't  see  how  I  could  help 
other  people  any ;  but  if  you  want  me  to, 
I'll  try,  —  only  you  must  tell  me  how." 

"  I'll  tell  you  how  I  learned  what  little  I 
know  about  it,  Polly,"  answered  Dr.  Grey, 
kindly.  "  When  I  first  came  here,  it  was 
with  me,  I  suppose,  very  much  as  it  is  with 
you  now.  I  pined  for  the  dear  ones  I  had 
lost,  and  found  this  great  empty  house  very 
lonely  and  dreary.  I  thought  no  one  had 
ever  been  so  afflicted  as   I,  and  T  indulged 


40  LITTLE    MARY'S   HOME. 

my  grief  without  giving  a  thought  to  other 
people's  feelings,  until,  one  night,  Grandma 
and  I  sat  here  in  this  very  parlor.  I  was 
moping  by  the  window,  just  as  you  were 
when  I  came  in.  I  thought  of  that  night 
when  I  saw  you  here,  looking  so  doleful ;  and 
dear  Grandma  sat  by  the  fire  with  her  knitting 
in  her  lap.  She  was  not  so  old  a  woman  as 
now  by  a  good  many  years,  but  she  seemed 
to  me  every  whit  as  aged ;  and  I  confess  I 
thought  it  something  of  a  bore  that  there 
should  be  no  younger  people  in  the  house. 
She  had  been  trying  hard  to  wile  me  into  a 
little  cheerful  talk,  but  I  was  obstinate  ;  so 
she  had  finally  given  it  over,  and  sat  there 
thinking,  with  her  hands  folded  over  the  work 
in  her  lap.  I  don't  know  what  prompted  me 
to  peep  out  at  her  from  my  snllen  nook  in 
the  window-seat,  but  I  did,  and  I  never  shall 
forget  the  weary,  sorrowful,  jaded  look  upon 
that  dear  old  face.  Perhaps  you  have  seen  it, 
Polly ;  it  has  come  back  once  or  twice  since 
you  came.  It  came  over  me  all  at  once  then, 
that  I  was  not  the  only  sufferer;  that,  if  I 
had  lost  my  parents,  dear  Grandma  had  lost 
her  only  son ;   if  I  was  lonely  in  my  orphan 


LITTLE  MARY'S  HOME.  41 

childhood,  she  must  be  still  more  so  in  her 
widowed  age ;  and  that  I,  who  should  have 
been  her  comfort,  was  adding  to  her  trouble 
by  my  selfish  grief.  I  can't  tell  you  how  I 
felt,  Mary;  but  I  remember  I  jumped  from 
the  window-seat,  and  sat  down  upon  the 
footstool  at  Grandma's  feet,  and  leaned  my 
head  against  her  knee.  The  kind  old  smile 
came  back  then,  and  I  made  a  great  vow^  to 
myself  to  keep  it  there.  I  have  tried ;  I 
don't  know  if  I  have  succeeded  always ;  but 
one  thing  I  do  know,  Polly  :  I  have  never  felt 
myself  quite  desolate  since  that  night.  I 
have  never  wished  for  any  one  younger  than 
Grandma  either ;  and  I  hope,  I  believe,  I  have 
filled,  in  some  measure,  the  place  of  the  son 
she  then  lost.  But  the  dear  old  patient  heart 
has  got  a  fresh  wound  now,  Polly :  she  has 
lost  a  daughter  now ;  another  orphan  grand- 
child is  weeping  in  her  home ;  and  the  old 
look  of  sadness  and  weariness  has  come  back. 
I  can't  banish  it  alone  this  time,  Polly.  Will 
you  help  me  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  know  what  you  mean !  "  cried  Mary, 
bursting  into  tears  ;  "  I  know  what  you  mean. 
I  have  seen  the  look.     It  was  on  her  lace  to- 


42  LITTLE  MARY'S  HOME. 

night,  when  I  would  not  go  with  her,  and 
aunt  Emily  would  insist  upon  taking  her 
away.  But  I  did  not  mind  it  as  you  did.  I 
never  thought  she  could  care  so  much  for 
mamma ;  but  I  see  now :  if  I  had  died,  dear 
mamma  would  have  been  so  sad,  so  sorry. 
Yes,  I  will  try,  cousin  John, —  I  will  !  " 

"  I  knew  you  would,  my  darling ;  and,  I 
am  sure,  Grandma  will  be  very  happy  in  her 
little  daughter." 

"  Her  little  daughter,"  repeated  Polly,  dry- 
ing her  eyes,  and  brightening  up,  as  if  that 
put  the  subject  in  a  new  light.  "  That  is 
like  being  your  little  sister,  isn't  it  ?  I  like 
that." 

"  Yes,"  said  Dr.  John,  "  my  little  sister, — 
Grandma's  boy  and  girl.  I  like  it  too,  Polly, 
very  much." 

"  We'll  be  ever  so  good,  won't  we  ?  But, 
cousin  John,  you've  only  told  me  about 
Grandmamma,  and  you  said  there  were 
others.  How  did  you  learn  to  help  the 
others  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  done  learning  that  yet,  Polly ; 
so  we  can  study  together,  and,  if  we  have  but 
the  motive,  I  dare  say  we  shall  find  a  way  to 


LITTLE  MARY'S   HOME.  43 

lighten  the  burden  of  many  a  weary  fellow- 
traveller." 

"  What  is  the  motive,  cousin  John  ?  " 
Dr.  John  made  no  answer  to  this  question 
in  words;  but  he  took  his  grandmother's 
great  Bible  from  the  stand  beside  him,  and 
turning  over  the  leaves,  put  his  finger  on  a 
passage,  and  held  it  up  to  the  fire-light  for 
Polly  to  read.  The  child  made  out  the  words 
slowly  by  the  flickering  light :  "  Inasmuch 
as  ye  have  done  it  unto  one  of  the  least  of 
these  my  brethren,  ye  have  done  it  unto 
me  " ;  then  looked  up  in  his  face  and  asked, 
in  a  frightened  tone,  "  Do  you  think  He 
really  meant  that,  cousin  John  ?  " 

"  We  have  His  own  Word  for  it,  Polly," 
answered  Dr.  John;  "  and  is  not  that  motive 
enough  ?  Is  there  anything,  anything,  we 
should  not  be  willing  to  do  for  Him  ?  " 


CHAPTER  V. 


"WHOSE    LOST    HAVE    I    FOUND?" 

SRTY  rose  next  morning  with 
the  firm  belief  that  her  wish 
was  to  be  granted,  though  in 
what  way  she  could  not  tell. 
She  was  not  so  unreasonable 
as  to  expect  the  .coveted  pleasure  to  fall  from 
the  sky  in  answer  to  her  prayers,  however ; 
and  so  she  could  not  help  feeling  some  curi- 
osity about  the  means  by  which  it  was  to 
come  to  her.  Was  it  to  be  given  her,  or 
was  she  to  be  helped  to  earn  it?  The  first 
plan  seemed  very  unlikely,  for  she  knew  no 
one  who  had  both  the  means  and  the  will 
to  do  so  much  for  her  ;  and  the  second 
seemed,  at  first  thought,  more  unlikely  still, 
but  she  was  fain  to  settle  upon  it  at  last, 
as  being  the  more  probable  of  the  two.  Yes  : 
she  would  be  very  diligent  in  her  work ;  and 
who  knew  but  she  might  find  something 
very  valuable  in  the  gutter,  or  do  some  great 


"  WHOSE   LOST   HAVE  I  FOUND  ?  "  45 

service  to  the  people  at  the  crossing,  and  so 
get  money  enough. 

But  how  much  money  would  it  take,  was 
another  question,  and  a  very  puzzling  ques- 
tion to  poor  Bertha,  whose  acquaintance  with 
the  prices  current  was  very  slight  indeed.  In 
this  emergency  she  applied  once  more  to 
Mrs.  Flanagan.  "  Biddy,  how  much  does  a 
Christmas  tree  cost  ?     Do*  you  know  ?  " 

"  A  Christmas  tree  !  Faix,  Berty,  what  a 
child  ye  are  for  axin'  questions !  Sure  they 
don't  be  havin'  such  toys  in  ould  Ireland ; 
and  I  niver  bought  one.  Pounds  and  pounds, 
1  suppose  ;  but  your  Dutch  folks  be  talkin' 
of  thim  so  much,  they'd  be  liker  to  know 
than  I." 

"And  how  many  cents  is  in  a  pound,  Mrs. 
Flanagan  ?  " 

"  How  many  cints  ?  Sure,  child,  I  niver 
reckoned.  There's  betune  four  and  five  dol- 
lars, I  know  ;  but  I  niver  could  remember 
rightly  how  much,  to  a  penny, —  the  money's 
so  bothersome  in  this  counthry." 

"And  there's  one  hundred  cents  in  a  dol- 
lar, I  know :  Tim  Daly  told  me,"  pursued 
Berty.    "  Pounds  and  pounds;. and  four  hun- 


46  "WHOSE  LOST  HAVE  I  FOUND?" 

dred  cents  to  a  pound.  Oh,  dear  !  oh,  dear  ! 
Mrs.  Flanagan,  do  you  think  I  could  ever 
earn  so  much  ?  " 

"  Hear  till  the  child  now !  Is  she  crazy, 
d'ye  think  ? "  cried  Biddy,  in  amazement. 
"  Sure,  you're  niver  thinkin'  of  buyin'  a  Christ- 
mas tree !  you,  that  haven't  shoes  to  yer 
feet,  nor  clothes  to  yer  back,  nor  food  to  yer 
stomach !  "  • 

Poor  Berty !  the  good  Irishwoman's  words 
fell  upon  her  heart  with  a  heavier  weight 
than  even  the  "  pounds  and  pounds  "  ;  but 
she  would  not  wait  to  hear  more,  —  she  would 
not  be  talked  out  of  her  project  at  the  very 
beginning,  —  so  she  caught  up  her  broom 
and  her  basket,  and  scampered  away  as  fast 
as  her  bare  little  feet  could  carry  her. 

Once  safe  round  the  corner,  out  of  reach 
of  Mrs.  Flanagan's  astonished  gaze,  Bertha 
began  to  walk  slower,  and  to  revolve  again 
in  her  mind  that  weary  question  of  ways  and 
means,  which  has  puzzled  so  many  wiser  heads 
than  hers.  It  was  so  hard  to  settle  what  to 
do ;  some  adviser  she  must  have  ;  but  who  ? 
She  could  not  consult  with  her  little  prime 
minister,  Gottlieb,  for  the  project  would  lose 


"WHOSE  LOST  HAVE  I  FOUND?"  47 

half  its  charm  if  it  were  not  to  be  a  surprise 
to  him.  She  thought  of  her  Dutch  acquaint- 
ance ;  doubtless  they  would  know  all  about 
it ;  but  she  remembered  Biddy's  amazement, 
and  she  had  no  mind  to  encounter  a  second 
edition  of  that.  No  ;  she  wanted  no  prudent 
old  heads  shaking  themselves  so  provokingly 
over  her  wild  plan.  What  she  wanted,  after 
all,  was  some  one  to  sympathize  rather  than 
advise. 

"  The  top  o'  the  morning  to  ye,  Berty," 
cried  a  pleasant,  cheery  voice,  breaking  in 
upon  her  meditations ;  and  her  heart  leapt 
within  her  at  the  sound  of  the  merry  brogue, 
and  the  sight  of  the  round,  rosy  face  of  the 
little  speaker.  Here  was  just  the  adviser  she 
wanted.  Tim  Daly,  her  master  in  the  rag- 
picker's arithmetic,  her  protector  in  all  her 
street  troubles,  —  honest,  merry,  wise,  kind- 
hearted,  blundering  Tim,  who  always  looked 
upon  the  bright  side  x>f  everything,  who  al- 
ways had  a  word  of  encouragement  for  every- 
body,—  who  could  be  a  better  confidant  than 
he? 

So  she  turned  upon  the  young  Irishman  a 
brighter  glance   of  welcome  even   than   he 


48  "WHOSE  LOST  HAVE  I  FOUND?" 

was  accustomed  to  get.  "  Oh,  I  so  glad  to 
see  you,  Tim  !  "  said  she.  "  You're  just  the 
very  one  I  wanted." 

"  Well,  it's  good  to  be  welcome,  any  way," 
said  Tim,  who  cared  more  for  Berty's  smiles 
than  he  would  have  been  willing  to  confess. 
"  It's  good  to  be  welcome.  An'  what  were 
ye  wanting  of  me,  Berty  ?  " 

"  I'll  tell  you,  Tim,"  answered  Berty,  eager- 
ly. "  I've  got  such  a  wonderful  plan ;  and 
I  can't  tell  Gottlieb,  you  see,  because  it*s 
part  to  be  for  him  ;  and  I  want  somebody  to 
talk  it  over  with  ;  and  you're  better  than  any 
one." 

"  Am  I,  though  ?  "  asked  Tim,  straighten- 
ing himself  up  grandly.  "  You're  the  broth 
of  a  boy,  Berty."  Tim  thought  it  very  nice 
to  be  better  than  any  one  to  Berty,  you  see ; 
and  as  for  Berty  herself,  she  seemed  quite 
contented  to  be  called  the  "  broth  of  a  boy," 
though  it  certainly  sounded  very  much  as  if 
Tim  was  a  cannibal,  and  not  a  very  good 
judge  of  child-soup  at  that. 

"  Yes  Tim,"  said  she,  "  you  are,  —  because 
you've  some  sense,  and  you  won't  fly  out  at 
one  like  Mrs.  Biddy,  I  know." 


"WHOSE  LOST  HAVE  I  FOUND?"  49 

"  I'll  never  fly  out  at  you,  Berty,  that's 
sure,"  said  Tim,  confidently. 

"  Well,  then,  you  see,  it's  just  this :  — 
There's  those  poor  children, —  Lieb,  and 
Lin  a,  and  Rose.  They  were  so  little  when 
we  came  from  the  old  country,  —  and  Fritzy, 
he  wasn't  born, —  and  none  of  them  ever 
saw  a  Christmas  tree  in  all  their  lives  ; "  — 
and  Berty  held  her  breath  here,  as  if  she 
had  made  a  very  astonishing  statement. 

"  No  more  have  I,"  said  Tim ;  "  but 
that's  nayther  here  nor  there,  Berty.  Go 
on." 

"  Didn't  you  ?  "  said  Berty,  casting  a  pity- 
ing glance  up  at  the  merry  face  beside  her, 
and  mentally  fastening  a  present  for  Tim 
upon  the  green  branches  of  her  imaginary 
tree.  "  Well,  neither  did  they ;  and  Ma- 
dame Hansmann,  you  see,  has  told  them 
about  it,  and  their  heads  are  full  of  it.  I 
heard  them  the  other  night  talking,  and  wish- 
ing, and  they  said  they  could  not  have  it 
because  they  had  no  father,  no  mother, — 
nobody  but  Bert.  And  oh,  Tim,  I  promised 
mother  to  do  everything  for  those  children; 
and   I  wish  so  much,  so  very  much,  to  do 


50  "WHOSE  LOST  HAVE  I  FOUND?" 

this.  Oh,  Tim,  do  you  think  I  could?  and 
will  you  help  me?"  finished  up  poor  Berty, 
in  a  choking  voice. 

"  'Deed  an'  I  will,  Berty,"  cried  Tim,  with 
an  encouraging  slap  upon  Berty's  shoulder; 
u  and  ov  course  ye  can  do  it.  Sure,  I've  got 
fifty  cints  that  I  was  laying  by  for  the  win- 
ter shoes ;  but  what's  shoes  to  a  Christmas 
tree  ?  Sure,  we'll  get  it  betune  us,  Berty. 
Don't  ye  cry ;  we'll  get  it,  sure  as  fate." 

This  was  rather  more  help  than  Berty  had 
bargained  for.  She  did  not  at  all  like  the 
notion  of  robbing  Tim  of  his  shoes ;  for,  if 
the  truth  must  be  told,  she  was  much  more 
tender  of  Tim's  feet  than  of  her  own. 

"  Oh  no,  Tim,"  said  she,  earnestly ;  "  I  did 
not  mean  that.  I  don't  want  you  to  help 
me  with  money,  for  I  mean  to  earn  it  all 
myself;  and  I  have  prayed,  and  I  know  that 
the  Christ-child  (that's  Jesus,  you  know) 
will  help  me.  I'm  going  to  look  sharp  in 
the  gutters,  and  I  shall  find  heaps  of  things ; 
or  else  I  shall  do  something  for  the  passen- 
gers, and  they'll  pay  me  ever  so  much.  I'm 
not  afraid  about  the  money ;  but  you  see 
I'm  not  wise,  —  I  can't  count'  much.     Will 


"  WHOSE  LOST  HAVE  I  FOUND  ?  "  51 

you  help  me  count  the  pennies,  when  I  get 
them,  and  keep  them  for  me  till  we  get 
enough,  —  so  Lieb  shall  not  guess,  —  and 
go  with  me  to  buy  the  tree  and  things,  so 
the  market-men  and  the  toy-sellers  shall  not 
cheat  me.  Only  there's  one  thing  I  want 
to  buy  all  myself,  and  you  mustn't  look 
then.     Will  you,  Tim?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Tim,  who  had  a  famous  pro- 
ject in  his  head  of  counting  his  own  pennies 
in  with  Berty's,  and  never  telling  her ;  "  yes, 
Berty,  I'll  do  everything  you  ask  me,  —  cer- 
tain sure." 

"  Then  it's  all  settled,"  cried  Berty,  with  a 
long  sigh  of  satisfaction,  the  tapers  of  her 
Christmas  tree  shining  brightly  in  her  mind's 
eye  as  she  spoke,  — "  quite  settled  at  last. 
And,  Tim,  here's  my  crossing,  and  yonder 's 
your* ;  and  you'll  see  —  you'll  see  what  a 
pile  of  pennies  I'll  have  to-night!" 

"  Well  ;  good  luck  to  you,  Berty,"  an- 
swered Tim,  and  scampered  off. 

If  you  had  been  near  to  watch  little  Berty 
that  morning,  I  am  sure  you  would  have 
thought  her  the  most  industrious  little  rag- 
picker in  all   New  York.     She  turned  over 


52  "WHOSE  LOST  HAVE  I  FOUND  ?" 

very  carefully  the  sweepings  of  the  shops, 
ransacked  all  the  rubbish  in  the  gutters,  and 
swept  patiently  at  her  crossing,  keeping  a 
sharp  eye  to  the  passengers  meanwhile,  for 
any  chance  to  do  them  service  ;  and  yet,  when 
she  sat  down,  quite  tired  out,  upon  the  curb- 
stone to  eat  her  crust  at  noon,  she  had  in  her 
basket  only  the  usual  amount  of  cabbage- 
stumps,  and  rags,  and  rusty  nails,  and  in 
her  pocket  only  the  two  pennies  which  a 
pleasant-looking  gentleman  had  tossed  her  as 
he  stepped  out  of  the  stage  at  the  crossing. 

It  was  very  discouraging.  And  Tim,  too, 
who  scarcely  ever  failed  to  come  round  now 
and  then  for  a  bit  of  friendly  chat,  had  never 
been  near  her  all  day.  Berty  was  almost 
glad,  since  she  had  nothing  to  show  him ; 
and  yet  it  gave  her  a  forsaken  feeling,  which, 
added  to  the  discouragement,  almost  Imade 
her  cry. 

By  and  by  a  drizzly  rain  came  on,  soaking 
her  thin  garments,  chilling  her  blood,  and 
making  the  bright  tapers  of  the  imaginary 
tree  look  very  dim  and  distant  through  its 
dismal  mist.  Yet  Berty  would  not  allow 
herself  to    lose    heart   entirely  :    this   wTas    a 


"WHOSE  LOST  HAVE  I  FOUND?"  53 

famous  time  for  the  crossing,  if  only  peo- 
ple would  not  be  in  such  a  hurry ;  for  every- 
body was  crowding  to  the  stages  to  escape 
the  rain.  Perhaps,  if  she  kept  it  very  neat, 
so  that  the  ladies  should  not  soil  their  fine 
dresses,  nor  the  gentlemen  their  shining 
boots,  some  of  them  might  be  grateful 
enough  to  fling  her  now  and  then  a  penny ; 
and  Berty  did  not  think  a  penny  so  small 
now  as  she  had  done  in  the  morning.  At 
any  rate  she  would  try. 

So  she  took  her  broom  and  swept  away 
vigorously ;  and,  sure  enough,  the  pennies  did 
come,  one  after  another,  ringing  down  upon 
the  clean  pavement,  till  Berty  had  counted 
ten ;  and  then  along  came  her  pleasant-look- 
ing gentleman  of  the  morning,  and  he  tossed 
her  a  dime,  with  such  a  cheery  smile,  too, 
that  Berty's  heart  quite  glowed  within  her, 
and  the  tapers  shone  out  again  brighter  than 
ever. 

But  what  was  this  which  came  tumbling 
down  upon  the  pavement  as  the  loaded  stage 
rolled  off,  —  not  ringing  at  all,  but  with  a 
heavy  thump  ?  Berty  picked  it  up.  A 
pocket-book  of  purple   Russia  leather,  very 


54  "WHOSE  LOST  HAVE  I  FOUND?" 

fat  and  full.  Whose  could  it  be?  The 
pleasant-looking  gentleman's?  Very  likely; 
for  Berty  remembered  that  he  was  the  last 
to  step  upon  the  platform.  So  she  held  it 
up  and  shouted,  and  ran  after  the  stage  a 
moment ;  but  nobody  heeded,  and  she  could 
never  overtake  it,  that  was  certain.  What 
should  she  do  ?  Give  it  to  the  policeman  ? 
Doubtless  he  knew  where  the  gentleman  lived ; 
policemen  knew  everything.  Berty  looked 
round,  but,  for  a  wonder,  there  was  no  po- 
liceman near.  What  should  she  do  then  ? 
Take  it  to  the  station-house,  or  wait  till  the 
stage  came  down  again  and  hand  it  to  the 
conductor  ?  He  knew  the  gentleman,  for  she 
had  seen  them  nod  to  each  other.  But  what 
if  he  should  not  give  it  up ;  what,  if  he 
should  keep  it? 

"  Keep  it !  "  What  was  there  in  that 
thought  to  make  Berty's  heart  beat  so,  and 
her  head  grow  giddy  ?  What  was  there  to 
make  her  clinch  the  pocket-book  tighter,  and 
hide  it  in  her  dress,  and  glance  round  to  see 
if  any  one  was  looking  ?  Was  it  a  good 
angel,  think  you,  that  whispered  in  Berty's 
ear  at  this  moment  —  "  Keep  it  !    If  any  one 


"WHOSE  LOST  HAVE  I  FOUND?"  55 

is  to  keep  it,  why  not  you  ?  You  did  not 
see  him  lose  it ;  how  do  you  know  to  whom 
it  belongs  ?  You  found  it  in  the  street ;  and 
what  is  found  in  the  street  belongs  to  the 
sweepers.  And  you  prayed,  too ;  how  can 
you  tell  but  this  is  an  answer  to  your  prayer  ? 
It  is  a  good  fat  one.  Surely,  it  holds  enough 
to  buy  a  Christmas  tree.  Look  at  it  and 
see  if  it  does  not." 

It  might  have  been  an  angel ;  very  likely 
it  was ;  but,  truly>  I  think  such  angels  are 
very  poor  help  in  growing  Christmas  trees. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


TIM    TURNS    POLICEMAN. 

IM  came  back  to  the  crossing 
towards  night,  his  round  face 
rosier  and  merrier  than  ever, 
and  a  new  little  splint  basket 
on  his  arm,  which  Berty  would 
have  wondered  over  at  any  other  time,  but 
did  not  notice  now.  She  sat  upon  the 
curb-stone  with  her  basket  beside  her,  and 
her  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  thinking  as  in- 
tently as  on  the  night  when  we  found  her 
at  the  attic  window.  But  there  was  a  flush 
on  her  face,  and  a  strange  look  of  care  in 
her  eyes,  for  which  Tim  could  not  account, 
and  which  he  thought  boded  little  good  to 
the  wished-for  tree.  Still,  Tim  thought  he 
carried  the  cure  for  all  such  trouble  in  his 
breeches'  pocket,  if  he  could  but  get  Berty 
to  take  it.  So  he  began,  cautiously,  "  Well, 
Berty,  so  you're  waiting,  for  me ;  how  goes 
it?" 


TIM  TURNS  POLICEMAN.  57 

The  child  turned  and  looked  at  him  va- 
cantly, but  did  not  answer.  "Bad  enough?" 
said  Tim,  sitting  down  beside  her.  "  Well, 
honey,  never  mind.  You'll  let  yer  own  Tim 
help  ye,  sure  ye  will.  An'  he's  a  rich  man 
the  night.  Faix,  it's  not  a  rag-picker  he  is 
at  all  any  more,  but  an  apple-boy ;  hooroo ! 
Whist,  Berty,"  he  added,  as  the  girl  started 
nervously  at  this  outburst.  "  Whist,  Berty, 
an'  I'll  tell  ye.  I  had  a  bright  thought  whin  I 
left  ye  the  morn ;  an'  I  just  scampered  home 
an'  tuk  the  fifty  cints  from  the  ould  stockin' 
fut,  where  uncle  Teddy  bade  me  keep  'em ; 
an'  I  wint  to  the  market  an'  bought  this  tidy 
basket,  d'ye  see  ?  an'  filled  it  wid  apples 
from  a  stall ;  an'  then  I  wint  down  to  the 
ferry  an'  sold  'em.  And  whin  the  apples 
were  all  gone,  I  filled  it  wid  oranges ;  an' 
whin  the  oranges  were  gone,  I  filled  it  wid 
chestnuts ;  an'  whin  the  chestnuts  was  gone, 
I  filled  it  wid  pennies,  d'ye  see  ? "  —  and, 
suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  Tim  poured 
a  jingling  stream  of  pennies  from  his  pocket 
into  the  basket. 

;'  There,  darlint,"  said  he,  coaxingly,  placing 
the  basket  upon  Berty's  knee.     "  There,  dar- 


58  TIM  TURNS  POLICEMAN. 

lint,  ye  won't  mourn  for  yer  luck  now  any 
more.  Ye'll  just  let  yer  own  Tim  help  ye. 
Sure,  ye  know,  Berty,  I've  no  one  but  meself 
to  care  for.  Uncle  Teddy 's  not  depindent  on 
me;  an'  you've  all  those  childer;  —  so,  it's 
only  fair  —  " 

"  Tim,"  said  Berty,  grasping  the  boy's  arm, 
and  speaking  in  a  frightened  whisper,  "  Tim, 
come  with  me.  I  want  to  show  you  some- 
thing." 

Tim  caught  the  basket  as  Berty  heedlessly 
rose,  and,  without  speaking,  followed  her  — 
still  holding  his  arm  —  down  a  neighboring 
alley.  He  had  never  seen  his  little  friend 
look,  or  act,  so  strangely,  and  he  was  curious 
to  know  what  it  meant.  When  they  came 
to  a  quiet,  out-of-the-way  spot,  Berty  stop- 
ped, and  putting  her  hand  in  her  bosom, 
drew  out  the  pocket-book,  and  held  it  up  be- 
fore him,  saying,  still  in  the  same  frightened 
whisper,  "  There,  Tim,  see  what  I  found  ! " 

"A  pocket-book  !     Oh,  Berty,  let's  see  ! " 

"Hush,  Tim!"  gasped  Berty,  "don't 
speak  so  loud;  and  here,  come  in  the  cor- 
ner, behind  this  water-butt.  Now,  Tim, 
open  it  and  count  it,  and  tell  me  if  there's 
enough." 


TIM  TURNS  POLICEMAN.  59 

Tim  took  the  book,  and,  loosening  the  elas- 
tic band,  spread  it  out  before  them  as  they  sat 
upon  the  sidewalk.  The  numerous  red  pock- 
ets were  famously  lined.  There  were  rolls 
of  bank-notes,  drafts,  checks,  and  in  one  lit- 
tle flapped  pocket  a  handful  of  shining  gold. 
"  Why,  Berty ! "  cried  Tim,  almost  breathless 
with  amazement,  "  I  could  never  count  it. 
It  would  take  a  bank-teller  to  do  that.  Sure, 
there's  money  enough  to  buy  a  dozen  Christ- 
mas trees." 

"  Is  there  ?  "  said  Berty,  clutching  eagerly 
at  it.  "  Is  there  ?  Then  there's  surely  enough 
to  buy  one.  Give  it  to  me,  Tim  ;  let  me 
put  it  away.    Somebody  '11  be  coming  along." 

Tim  caught  the  grasping  hand  in  one  of 
his,  and  held  the  pocket-book  firmly  in  the 
other.  "  Where  did  you  get  it,  Berty  ?  "  he 
asked. 

Berty's  head  drooped  a  little,  and  the  color 
flushed  up  to  her  temples.  "I  told- you, 
Tim,"  she  answered :  "  I  found  it." 

"  Yes  ;  but  where  ?  " 

"  In  the  street." 

"  And  you  don't  know  who  it  belongs 
to?" 


60  TIM  TURNS  POLICEMAN. 

"  How  should  I  ?  "  said  Berty,  growing  red- 
der still,  and  wrenching  impatiently  at  the 
detained  little  hand.  "  Give  it  to  me,  Tim ; 
it's  mine." 

Tim  looked  gravely  down  at  the  pocket- 
book,  which  he  had  closed  and  fastened,  and 
then  back  again  at  Berty's  face.  The  strange 
look  there  was  getting  a  meaning  in  it  which 
he  did  not  like  at  all.  "  Berty,"  said  he,  free- 
ing her  hand  at  last,  and  pointing  with  his 
finger  to  a  row  of  gilt  letters  upon  one  side 
of  the  book,  "  do  you  see  that  ?  That's  the 
owner's  name  and  number.  We've  got  to 
take  this  to  the  station.  That's  all  the  busi- 
ness we've  got  with  it." 

"  You  sha'n't,  Tim  !  It's  mine,  I  tell  you ! 
You've  got  no  business  with  it  at  all.  Give 
it  here,  I  say !  "  cried  Berty,  snatching  the 
pocket-book  from  his  hand,  and  hiding  it 
again  in  her  bosom. 

Tin>  made  no  attempt  to  recover  it.  He 
stood  looking  at  Berty  for  a  moment,  with 
a  mixture  of  grief  and  astonishment  in  his 
face,  and  then  said,  slowly,  "  Well,  Berty 
Weisser,  I  never  thought  that  of  you,  any 
way.     It's  no  better  than  stealing,  —  not  a 


TIM  TURNS   POLICEMAN.  61 

bit.  Oh,  Berty  .J,  Oh,  Berty !  come  wid  it  to 
the  station.  Come  now !  Sure,  you  would- 
n't be  a  thief,  I  know.     Come,  Berty,  come." 

"  I  won't,  Tim,"  cried  Berty,  passionately. 
"  It's  mine,  I  tell  you !  I  found  it  in  the 
street.  What  we  find  in  the  street  is  ours ; 
you  know  it  is.  You  are  bad,  Tim,  you  are 
cruel,  to  call  me  such  names.  I  hate  you ! 
I  won't  stay  to  hear  you ! "  and  the  child  put 
both  hands  to  her  ears  and  ran  away,  with 
all  the  speed  she  could  muster,  towards  her 
home. 

Tim's  first  impulse,  of  course,  was  to  run 
after  her;  so  he  followed,  shouting  to  her  to 
stop,  —  the  pennies  in  his  basket  keeping  up 
a  jingling  accompaniment  to  his  cries  and 
his  pattering  feet.  Berty,  however,  paid  no 
attention,  but  ran  on  and  on,  without  look- 
ing round  or  slacking  her  pace,  until  she 
found  herself  safe  in  her  attic,  with  the  door 
dosed  and  bolted  against  her  pursuer. 

Tim  stopped  at  the  foot  of  the  garret- 
stairs,  and  sat  down  upon  the  lowest  step, 
quite  breathless  with  his  chase.  Uncle  Ted- 
dy's room  opened  upon  the  same  landing, 
and  the   merry   little    Irishman    sat   at   the 


62  TIM  TURNS  POLICEMAN. 

door  smoking  his  pipe  in  }Jie  twilight,  and 
laughing  heartily  at  his  nephew's  ill  luck. 
"  What's  come  to  your  sweetheart,  Tim  ?  " 
said  he  ;  "  she  tore  up  the  stairs  like  mad." 

"  She  is  mad,  I  think,"  answered  Tim, 
wiping  his  forehead,  and  looking  ruefully  up 
the  stairs  towards  Berty's  room. 

"  Well,  leave  her  alone  for  a  little,  and 
she'll  come  to ;  it's  the  way  of  them  all," 
counselled  Uncle  Teddy.  "  But  what's  that 
you  have  there,  Tim  ?  " 

Tim  looked  down  at  his  basket,  and  the 
ghost  of  a  smile  lighted  up  his  face  again. 
"  It's  pennies,  Uncle,"  said  he.  "  I've  set  up 
for  an  apple-boy  the  day;  and  see,  I  made 
all  these  from  the  fifty  cints  w7e  laid  by  for 
the  shoes.     There's  a  dollar  and  ten  cints." 

"  Is  there  though  ?  Ye're  a  sharp  lad, 
Tim.  It's  half  as  much  as  I've  aimed  me- 
self.  Put  it  by  and  take  care  of  it,  lad. 
Well,  I'm  goin'  out  for  a  bit,"  he  added, 
knocking  the  ashes  from  his  pipe,  "  and  ye 
can  come  wid  me,  if  ye  like,  Tim,  —  just  for 
once  in  a  way." 

«  No,  Uncle,"  said  Tim ;  «  I'll  bide  here,  I 
think ;  I'm  tired." 


TIM  TURNS  POLICEMAN.  63 

Very  tired  was  Tim,  and  very  sad,  and 
sorely  puzzled  about  what  he  was  to  do. 
There  was  his  little  venture,  so  successful, 
and  yet  so  useless ;  there  was  Berty,  whom 
he  loved  better  than  all  the  world,  hiding 
away  from  him,  calling  him  cruel  and  declar- 
ing she  hated  him ;  and  there  was  the  pocket- 
book,  of  which  he  felt  himself  become  in 
some  mysterious  way  the  especial  guardian, 
taken  out  of  his  reach.  But,  worse  than 
all,  harder  than  all,  for  poor,  honest,  warm- 
hearted Tim  to  bear,  was  the  thought  that 
this  little  Berty,  whom  he  had  first  learned 
to  love  because  she  seemed  so  much  better 
than  other  children,  the  remembrance  of 
whose  goodness  and  purity  had  kept  him 
from  many  a  boyish  transgression,  was  go- 
ing wrong,  was  setting  her  heart  upon  keep- 
ing what  did  not  belong  to  her.  Oh,  if  she 
would  but  heed  him  !  Oh,  if  she  would  but 
listen  to  reason  !  Perhaps  she  would  now ; 
perhaps  she  was  cooler,  and  would  talk  the 
matter  over.  He  could  at  least  try.  So  he 
crept  softly  up  the  stairs  to  Berty's  door. 
It  was  quite  dark  by  this  time,  and  all 
was  quiet  within.      He    put   his  lips    to  a 


64  TIM  TURNS   POLICEMAN. 

crack  in  the  panel  and  called,  "  Berty !  let 
me  in.  I  want  to  spake  wid  ye."  Then  he 
laid  his  ear  to  the  crack  and  listened,  but 
heard  no  sound.  She  could  not  be  asleep 
so  soon.  "  Berty,  honey  !  "  he  called  again, 
coaxingly.     "  Do  let  me  in." 

"  Go  away,  Tim,"  answered  a  hoarse  whis- 
per close  to  his  ear.  "  Go  away.  You'll 
wake  the  children,  and  they  must  not  know." 

No,  the  children  must  not  know.  Tim 
agreed  with  her  there.  The  children  must 
never  guess  upon  the  brink  of  what  a  preci- 
pice their  sister  stood. 

"  Come  out  to  me,  then,  Berty,"  he  whis- 
pered, softly  ;    "  they'll  not  hear." 

"  No ;  go  away.  I'll  not  come  out.  You'll 
be  trying  to  get  it.     Go  away,  I  tell  you." 

"  No,  I  won't,"  said  Tim,  earnestly.  "  I 
promise  you  I  won't.  I  only  want  to  talk  a 
little.  Come,  now, — there's  a  dear  girl, — 
come." 

"  I  won't,  I  tell  you,"  said  Berty,  decidedly. 
"  I  don't  want  to  talk  with  you,  Tim.  You 
call  me  names.     Go  away." 

Tim  saw  he  was  losing  ground,  for  he 
knew  from  Berty's  voice  that  she  was  getting 


TBI  TURNS  POLICEMAN.  65 

in  a  passion  again ;  and  of  all  things  he 
dreaded  that.  What  had  come  to  his  gentle 
Berty  to  get  in  a  passion  so  easily  ?  At  any 
rate,  they  must  part  good  friends,  or  he  felt 
he  had  no  chance  left  of  winning  her  to  a 
better  mind. 

"Berty,"  said  he  again,  in  his  most  per- 
suasive tone,  —  "  Berty  dear,  you're  not  vexed 
wid  me  ?     Say  you're  not." 

"  Go  off,  I  say,  Tim ;  go  away." 

"  Say  good  night,  then,  Berty,  and  I'll  go." 

"  Good  night,  Tim." 

There  was  a  shadow  of  relenting  in  the 
voice  this  time;  and  poor  Tim  was  fain  to 
carry  off  this  drop  of  comfort  in  his  heart 
without  running  the  risk  of  losing  it  by  stay- 
ing longer:  so  he  put  his  lips  to  the  crack 
again,  and  whispered  softly,  "  Good  night, 
Berty  dear  ; "  then  added,  with  a  sudden  im- 
pulse, "  Say  your  prayers  before  you  go  to 
sleep,"  and  ran  away  down-stairs  again,  to 
discuss  with  himself  once  more  that  momen- 
tous question  —  what  to  do. 

One  thing  seemed  plain,  however,  through 
all  the  puzzle :  he  must  keep  an  eye  on 
Berty  so  long  as  she  had  that  pocket-book 


66  TIM  TURNS  POLICEMAN. 

in  her  possession,  —  to  save  her,  if  possible, 
from  herself,  and  to  guard  this  property  which 
had  been  so  strangely  committed  to  his  care. 
So  he  got  his  blanket  from  uncle  Teddy's 
room,  and  curled  himself  up  in  it  at  the  foot 
of  the  stairs.  None  of  the  lodgers,  except 
Berty,  came  down  that  staircase  ;  and  she 
should  never  come  down  without  his  knowl- 
edge. So  much  was  settled  then.  But  what 
next  ?  Should  he  send  uncle  Teddy  to  the 
station-house  in  the  morning  ?  The  police- 
men would  come  then,  perhaps,  and  drag 
poor  Berty  away  to  the  tombs.  Oh  no,  he 
could  never  do  that !  Berty  would  have  a 
right  to  call  him  cruel,  —  she  would  have  a 
right  to  hate  him,  if  he  did  that.  What  then  ? 
Should  he  find  out  the  stranger  and  let  him 
know  where  his  property  Was  ?  Perhaps  that 
would  be  best ;  perhaps  the  gentleman  was 
a  kind  one,  who  would  even  give  Berty  some- 
thing for  keeping  it  safe. 

Bu*  Berty  would  never  let  him  see  the 
pocket-book  again,  —  never.  Could  he  re- 
member the  immber  and  the  name  ?  Ah,  yea. 
"  John  Grey " ;  he  had  made  that  out  quite 
distinctly ;  —  that  was  the  name.     But  about 


TIM    TURNS   POLICEMAN.  67 

the  number  he  was  not  so  sure ;  indeed  he 
was  not  sure  that  he  had  read  it  at  all ;  —  he 
had  only  noticed  something  printed  after  the 
name,  which  he  had  taken  for  granted  was  a 
number.  And  now  all  at  once  it  flashed  upon 
him  that  it  was  not  a  number,  but  two  letters 
—  M.  D.  Yes,  he  saw  it  quite  plainly  with 
his  mind's  eye  now,  —  "  John  Grey,  M.  D." 
But  what  did  M.  D.  mean  ?  And  how  was 
he  to  find  the  gentleman  if  there  was  no 
number  ?  Poor  Tim  !  he  was  getting  sorely 
puzzled  and  very  sleepy  ;  and  so  at  last,  lest 
he  should  forget  them,  he  got  upon  his  knees 
and  murmured  his  Ave  Maria  and  his  Pater- 
noster, —  and  one  little  Irish-English  prayer, 
which  perhaps  mounted  higher  than  either, 
that  the  dear  Jesu  would  watch  over  him 
and  Berty,  and  keep  them  from  evil,  and 
help  them  to  do  right,  and  bring  them  safe 
out  of  their  trouble  at  last ;  and  then  laid 
down  again  and  fell  asleep. 

Yes,  children,  I  am  sorry  to  say  Tim  was 
a  Papist,  and  knew  no  better  than  to  pray  to 
the  Virgin,  who,  if  she  heard  him,  was  doubt- 
less more  sorry  than  you  or  I  can  be ;  but 
Tim  was  an  honest,  faithful  boy,  who  tried 


68  TIM    TURNS    POLICEMAN. 

with  all  his  might  to  do  his  duty  to  God  and 
his  neighbor  according  to  the  light  that  was 
given  him ;  and  therefore  I  have  a  great  re- 
spect for  those  Latin  prayers  of  his,  which, 
little  as  he  understood  them,  were  doubtless 
more  acceptable  than  many  an  English  one 
which  goes  up  from  a  less  earnest  heart. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


ANOTHER    CHASE. 


F  Tim  had  meant  to  revenge 
himself  for  all  Berty's  crossness, 
he  could  not  have  chosen  any 
means  more  certain  than  his 
parting-words  to  do  it.  In  the 
tumult  of  her  thoughts,  and  her  anxiety  to 
get  rid  of  Gottlieb's  questions  about  the 
basket  and  broom,  which  in  her  haste  she 
had  left  unheeded  upon  the  sidewalk,  Berty 
had  hurried  herself  and  the  children  into  bed 
without  remembering  her  usual  devotions. 
But  those  words  of  Tim's,  "  Say  your  prayers 
before  you  go  to  sleep,"  brought  the  remem- 
brance, and  somehow  it  was  strangely  unwel- 
come. She  sat  down  upon  the  bedside,  after 
Tim  was  gone,  to  think  it  over.  If  the  pocket- 
book  had  been  sent,  as  she  tried  to  persuade 
herself,  in  answer  to  her  prayers,  she  ought 
at  least  to  be  willing  to  thank  her  Father  in 
Heaven  for  such  great  and  unexpected  kind- 


70  ANOTHER  CHASE. 

ness ;  and  yet  for  her  life  she  dared  not  have 
done  it.  If  it  was  God's  gift,  it  should  fill  her 
heart  with  love  and  thankfulness.  Whence 
came,  then,  this  anger  and  terror?  Berty 
would  not  let  herself  understand,  —  would 
not  allow  herself  to  answer,  —  but  crept  into 
bed  again  with  the  Vaterunser  still  unsaid, 
though  not  forgotten. 

But  the  sleep  which  settled  so  sweetly 
over  Tim's  hard  couch  held  aloof  from  the 
straw  bed  in  the  attic.  Berty  tossed  and 
tumbled  in  feverish  unrest,  —  or  lay  in  silent 
terror  listening  to  the  footsteps  of  the  late 
lodgers  coming  in,  and  fancying  they  were 
policemen  seeking  for  her,  —  or  magnifying 
the  rats  in  the  ceiling  into  robbers,  breaking 
in  to  steal  her  treasure.  She  tried  to  put 
the  pocket-book  out  of  her  head,  but  it  lay 
there  like  a  leaden  weight  in  her  bosom,  and 
would  not  be  forgotten ;  she  tried  to  think 
of  her  Christmas  tree,  but  the  sftining  tapers 
were  all  gone  out  and  would  not  be.  re- 
lighted. The  face  of  the  strange  gentleman 
would  come  up  in  their  stead ;  but  the  cheery 
smile  which  had  warmed  her  heart  so,  burned 
into  it  now  like  a  red-hot  iron.     And  Tim's 


ANOTHER  CHASE.  71 

words,  too,  —  those  bad,  cruel  words,  "  It's 
no  better  than  stealing,  not  a  bit ;  and  you 
would  not  be  a  thief,  Berty,"  —  came  back 
again  and  again.  And  so  the  night  wore 
on,  —  the  most  wretched  night  which,  with 
all  her  troubles,  poor  Berty  had  ever  known. 

Towards  morning  she  fell  into  an  uneasy 
slumber,  and  dreamed  that  the  strange  gen- 
tleman, in  a  policeman's  dress,  with  the 
cheery  smile  still  upon  his  face,  hunted  her 
up  and  down  through  crowded  streets  and 
lonely  alleys,  while  Tim  and  all  the  people 
cried  "  Stop  thief !  "  and  woke  to  find  it  morn- 
ing, and  Lieb  calling  her  to  get  up  and 
asking  again  those  weary  questions  about 
*  the  basket  and  the  broom. 

She  put  him  off  with  a  story  of  Tim's  tak- 
ing care  of  them,  gave  him  his  breakfast,  and 
sent  him  away  to  his  work ;  then  dressed 
little  Fritz,  and,  leaving  Lina  and  Rose  to 
take  care  of  him  and  put  the  room  to  rights, 
started  out,  with  not  much  notion  where  she 
was  going,  5—  only  somewhere  to  get  away 
from  herself.  Tim  was  waiting  for  her  at 
the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  with  his  new  basket 
full  of  apples  in  one  hand,  and  his  own  old 


72  ANOTHER  CHASE. 

rag-basket  and  broom  in  the  other.  The 
faithful  little  sentinel  had  waked  with  the 
first  peep  of  day,  and  gone  out  to  the  earliest 
market-stall  to  purchase  his  little  store  be- 
fore Berty  was  stirring. 

"  Good  morning,  Berty,"  said  he,  pleasant- 
ly. "  You  left  your  basket  and  broom  in  the 
street  yesterday.  I  forgot 'all  about  it  till  just 
now  ;  and  they're  quite  gone  before  this.  You 
can  take  mine,  though.  I  sha'n't  want  'em 
any  more,  you  know." 

Berty  nodded,  and  took  them  without 
speaking.  It  seemed  that  she  scarcely  need- 
ed such  tools  now,  rich  as  she  was  ;  but  she 
should  feel  lost  without  them,  and  they  might 
help  to  occupy  her  mind  until  she  had  de- 
cided what  to  do  with  all  that  money.  So 
she  set  off  for  the  crossing,  while  Tim  fol- 
lowed close  at  her  heels,  very  uncomfortable, 
but  quite  determined  to  keep  her  in  sight. 
He  had  gotten  no  farther  through  his  puzzle, 
poor  boy,  than  this  first  determination ;  and 
this  playing  the  policeman  upon  Berty  was 
not  at  all  to  his  taste. 

And  Berty  liked  it  as  little  as  he  ;  for  more 
than  anything  else  she  dreaded  to  meet  those 


ANOTHER  CHASE.  73 

eyes,  the  only  ones  which  had  seen  her 
hidden  treasure,  —  more  than  anything  else 
she  wished  to  avoid  a  talk  with  their  owner, 
the  only  person  in  all  New  York  who  knew 
her  uncomfortable  secret.  She  thought  per- 
haps he  would  leave  her  at  the  crossing,  and 
go  on  to  the  ferry  if  she  took  no  notice ;  so 
she  began  to  hunt  very  carefully  among  the 
rubbish  in  the  gutter,  as  if  she  had  eyes  and 
thoughts  for  nothing  else  ;  but  she  could  not 
help  looking  round  slyly  at  last,  and  there 
was  Tim  posted  at  the  corner  with  his 
basket,  though  there  could  be  very  little 
chance  for  customers  among  the  few  early 
passers-by.  •Presently,  when  the  crowd  began 
to  thicken,  she  began  to  sweep  the  crossing 
with  her  back  towards  the  sidewalk ;  but, 
ever  and  anon,  as  she  glanced  over  her 
shoulder,  she  would  catch  sight,  between  the 
flitting  figures,  of  her  little  policeman,  never 
looking  for  customers  at  all,  never  speaking, 
never  coming  nearer,  but  watching,  watching 
still. 

It  was  very  provoking.  What  could  Tim 
mean  by  it  ?  She  would  not  have  him  watch- 
ing there ;  she  would  send  him  away.     But 


74  ANOTHER  CHASE. 

if  she  once  spoke  to  him,  what  might  he  not 
say  to  her  ?  what  might  he  not  do  ?  It  was 
a  new  feeling,  this  being  afraid  of  Tim,  and 
not  by  any  means  a  pleasant  one  ;  but  one 
thing  was  certain :  she  could  never  come 
to  any  decision,  —  she  could  never  do  any- 
thing with  the  money  while  Tim  was  watch- 
ing there.  Berty  was  just  thinking  of  running 
away  herself,  when  a  stage  stopped  at  the 
crossing  directly  in  front  of  her,  and  out 
stepped  the  pleasant-looking  gentleman,  with 
the  old  cheery  smile  upon  his  face.  That 
decided  her  ;  she  dropped  her  broom  in  a 
twinkling,  and  scampered  away  up  the  street. 
On  and  on  she  ran,  passing  through  street 
after  street,  turning  corner  after  corner,  till  at 
last,  quite  breathless  and  spent,  she  ventured 
to  look  behind,  and  seeing  she  was  not  pur- 
sued, took  courage  to  slacken  her  pace.  Still 
she  dared  not  go  back  to  the  crossing;  she 
was  even  afraid  to  return  to  Mrs.  Flanagan's, 
lest  the  gentleman  should  be  seeking  her 
there ;  and  so  she  wandered  on,  the  streets 
growing  less  and  less  familiar,  till  she  had 
lost  her  way  entirely,  and  then  sat  down, 
quite  wearied  out,  upon  the  curb-stone,  to 


ANOTHER  CHASE.  75 

rest  herself  a  little  and  determine  what  to 
do.  It  was  a  handsome  street,  clean,  and 
well  paved,  and  lined  with  stately  brown- 
stone  houses,  not  at  all  like  any  part  of 
the  city  where  Berty  had  ever  been  before. 
Though  it  was  nearly  noon,  the  people  on 
the  sidewalks  were  few  and  far  between, 
and,  but  for  the  stages  and  the  handsome 
carriages,  the  street  would  have  seemed  very 
lonely  and  quiet.  Berty  thought  to  herself 
it  could  not  be  a  very  good  place  for  the  rag- 
pickers and  the  crossing-sweepers.  But  who 
was  that  skulking  behind  the  area  railing 
yonder,  and  peeping  out  at  her  ?  Berty 
started  up  in  alarm,  but  she  was  too  tired 
to  run  away  now ;  and,  after  all,  it  was  only 
Tim.  Tim  could  not  do  her  any  great  harm  ; 
upon  the  whole,  she  would  be  rather  glad 
to  see  him  than  otherwise,  for  he  would  know 
the  way  home.  So  she  sat  down  again  and 
waited  for  him  to  come. 

But  Tim  did  not  come.  He  stayed  behind 
the  railing,  only  peeping  out  now  and  then 
to  make  sure  that  his  charge  did  not  steal 
away  unperceivecl.  He  had  taken  it  for 
granted  that  Berty  was  running  away  from 


76  ANOTHER   CHASE. 

him,  for  he  knew  nothing  about  the  strange 
gentleman ;  and  so  he  had  been  skulking 
behind  things  and  people  all  the  way  up  in 
such  a  sly  fashion  that  any  one  who  noticed 
him  at  all  must  have  taken  him,  poor  honest 
fellow,  for  the  culprit,  instead  of  Berty. 

Berty  waited,  as  I  said,  and  wondered  ; 
and  when  she  found  Tim  was  not  coming 
to  her,  plucked  up  courage  at  last  to  go  to 
bim.  Tim  could  scarcely  believe  his  eyes  ; 
but  he  did  not  run  away  from  Berty,  you 
may  be  sure.  He  made  room  for  her  upon 
the  stone  step  beside  him,  and  received  her 
with  a  very  pleasant  smile. 

"  What  made  you  run  away,  Berty  ?  "  said 
he.     "  Sure,  you  knew  I'd  never  harm  you." 

Berty  was  very  glad  Tim  had  put  this 
construction  upon  her  flight,  for  she  dreaded, 
of  all  things,  letting  him  know  about  the 
gentleman.  "  What  made  you  watch  me 
so,  then,  Tim  ?  "  said  she. 

Tim  was  not  quite  prepared  with  an  an- 
swer to  this  question,  so,  in  true  Irish  fashion, 
he  turned  it  off  with  a  joke.  "A  cat  may  look 
at  a  king,  Berty,"  he  answered ;  "  and  you're 
no  better  than  a  king,  sure." 


ANOTHER  CHASE.  77 

"  And  you're  no  better  than  a  cat,  Tim," 
answered  Berty,  sharply.  "  You  looked  just 
like  one,  I'm  sure.  But  I  don't  want  to  talk 
about  that  now,"  she  added,  decidedly  ;  "  and 
if  you  begin,  I  shall  run  away.  I  want  you 
to  show  me  the  way  home." 

"  You're  too  tired  to  go  home  now,  Berty," 
said  Tim,  with  a  pitying  glance  at  the  pale, 
anxious  face.  "  Sit  down  here,  and  rest  a 
bit,  and  eat  an  apple.  You're  hungry,  I'm 
sure.  I'll  never  say  a  word  you  don't  like, 
honey,  —  see  if  I  do." 

Berty  was  very  tired,  and  not  a  little 
hungry ;  so,  having  confidence  in  Tim's 
promise,  she  sat  down  beside  him ;  while 
Tim,  having  made  up  his  mind  that  his  best 
chance  of  influencing  her  was  by  removing 
her  fear  of  him,  set  himself  to  entertain  her 
to  the  best  of  his  ability. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 


BERTY    RUNS    AAV  AY    FOR    THE    LAST    TIME. 


ERTY  would  scarcely  have  sat 
there  so  securely,  though,  if  she 
had  known  who  was  making 
his  way,  through  all  the  down- 
town maze,  towards  the  very 
house  in  front  of  which  she  and  Tim  had 
settled  themselves. 

Perhaps  my  young  readers  have  not  for- 
gotten the  aunt  Emily  of  whom  little  Mary 
spoke  in  a  former  chapter.  This  house  be- 
longed to  that  very  aunt  Emily ;  and  the 
fine  carriage,  with  the  handsome  bay  horses, 
which  was  drawn  up  in  front  of  the  door, 
and  upon  the  merits  of  which  Tim  was  ex- 
patiating, belonged  to  Mrs.  Grey,  who,  with 
her  little  grand-daughter,  was  making  a  morn- 
ing visit  to  aunt  Emily. 

While  the    old   ladies  were  gossiping  to- 


BERTY  RUNS  AWAY  FOR  THE  LAST  TIME.     79 

gether,  little  Mary  sat  by  the  window  watch- 
ing the  passing  stages,  and  looking  out  for 
Dr.  John,  who  had  promised  to  return  that 
way  when  his  business  down  town  was  fin- 
ished, and  take  them  with  him  to  visit  a 
hospital  where  some  of  the  patients  were 
under  his  care.  When  Berty  and  Tim  came 
and  sat  down  in  front  of  the  gate,  Mary 
turned  her  attention  a  little  from  the  stages 
and  began  watching  them. 

Berty's  pale  face  and  weary  look  soon 
interested  her  very  much  ;  for,  ever  since 
that  talk  with  cousin  John  she  had  been 
looking  out  for  some  one  whom  she  could 
help.  Here  was,  perhaps,  the  very  case 
she  wanted,  for  these  children  were  cer- 
tainly poor  enough,  and  the  little  girl  es- 
pecially looked  very  sad;  but  how  could 
she  begin  ?  Just  then,  aunt  Emily,  whose 
only  notion  of  entertaining  children  seemed 
to  consist  in  feeding  them,  ordered  a  plate 
of  cakes  brought  in  for  Mary  to  eat.  Mary 
was  not  at  all  hungry,  so  she  only  broke  off 
a  little  corner  of  one,  not  to  seem  rude,  and 
set  the  plate  upon  the  window-seat.  Then 
it  occurred  to  her  that  perhaps  the  little  girl 


80     BERTY  RUNS  AWAY  FOR  THE  LAST  TIME. 

was  hungry  and  might  like  some  of  the 
cakes.  At  least  it  would  give  her  a  good 
excuse  for  talking  a  little. 

"  Aunt  Emily,"  said  she,  "  there  is  a  little 
girl  and  boy  out  here  by  the  steps,  and  they 
look  hungry.  May  I  give  them  some  of  my 
cakes  ?  " 

"  If  there  are  more  than  you  want,  my 
dear,"  answered  the  old  lady;  "but  mind 
and  don't  go  very  near  them,  Polly,  or  you 
may  catch  some  disease." 

Very  glad  of  this  permission,  Mary  took 
the  plate  of  cakes  in  her  hand  and  went  out 
.upon  the  steps.  Hearing  the  door  close, 
Tim  and  Berty  looked  round,  and  seeing 
the  little  girl  coming  down  the  steps,  sup- 
posed she  was  coming  out  of  the  gate,  and 
rose  to  go  away. 

"  Don't  go  away,  please,"  said  Mary. 
"  I  was  only  coming  to  bring  you  some 
cakes.  My  aunty  gave  me  some,  and  there 
were  more  than  I  wanted,  so  I  brought  some 
out  for  you.  Wouldn't  you  like  some  ?  " 
And  she  held  the  plate  out  to  them  over 
the  little  iron  gate. 

The  cakes   looked  very  inviting,  and  the 


BKRTY,   TTM,   AND  MARY.     Page  80. 


BERTY  RUNS   AWAY  FOR  THE  LAST  TIME.     81 

little  girl's  manner  was  so  courteous  that 
it  would  have  seemed  quite  uncivil  to  re- 
fuse ;  so  Tim  made  his  best  bow,  and  Berty 
dropped  a  courtesy,  while  each  took  a  cake. 

"  Oh,  take  more,  take  them  all ;  I  meant 
them  all  for  you,"  said  Mary,  still  holding 
out  the  plate.  "  If  there  are  too  many  to 
*eat  now,  you  can  put  them  in  your  pockets 
and  take  them  home." 

"  Take  them,  Berty,"  said  Tim,  "  since  the 
little  Miss  is  so  kind.  I  can  put  them  in  my 
basket  for  you,  and  the  childer  will  be  glad 
of  them  ;  they  don't  get  such  every  day,  ye 
know." 

•  "  So  you  have  some  brothers  and  sisters?  " 
said  Mary,  after  the  plate  was  emptied  and 
the  contents  stowed  in  Tim's  basket.  "  How 
many  ?  " 

"  There  are  four  younger  than  me,  Miss," 
answered  Berty :  "  two  boys  and  two  girls." 

"  And  I  have  two,  —  a  brother  and  sister. 
Mine  are  twins.     Are  any  of  yours  twins  ?  " 

"  No,  Miss ;  we  all  come  in  a  row.  Mother 
said  we  are  like  little  steps,"  said  Berty. 

"  You  have  a  mother,  then.  My  father 
and   mother    are    dead  ;   there    are  only  the 


82      BERTY  RUNS  AWAY  _FOR  THE  LAST  TIME. 

babies  and  I,"  said  little  Mary,  sorrow- 
fully. 

"  Are  they  ?  "  cried  Berty,  drawing  nearer 
to  Maty  with  a  shy  feeling  of  sympathy. 
"  So  are  mine,  too ;  and  there  are  only  the 
children  and  me,  except  uncle  Gottlieb  in 
the  old  country  ;  and  we  cannot  hear  from 
him  since  mother  died." 

"  What !  "  cried  Mary,  in  amazement. 
"  Have  you  nobody  to  take  care  of  you  ? 
no  grandmother,  or  cousin,  or  aunt  ? " 

"  No,  Miss  ;  we  have  only  each  other." 

"  But  who  feeds  you,  then  ?  Who  buys 
your  clothes  for  you  ?  " 

"  We  have  not  much,  Miss,"  said  Berty, 
simply.  "  But  what  we  have  we  get  our- 
selves, my  brother  and  I ;  the  otheis  are 
too  little." 

"  But  how  can  you  ? "  cried  Mary,  ut- 
terly unable  to  understand  such  destitution. 
"  You  are  too  little  to  work  yourself,  and 
your  brother,"  glancing  at  Tim,  "  is  not  very 
big.     How  can  you  take  care  of  so  many  ?  " 

"  We  pick  things  from  the  gutters,  Miss," 
said  Berty,  "  and  sometimes  we  sweep  the 
crossing ;  and  Mrs.  Flanagan  forgives  us  the 
rent." 


BERTY  RUNS  AWAY  FOR  THE  LAST  TIME.      83 

"  Oh,  it  is  very  sad  ! "  cried  Mary,  clasping 
her  hands  ;  "  it  is  much  worse  than  us. 
Cousin  John  said  there  were  others  much 
worse  off  than  I,  but  I  did  not  see  how  it 
could  be.  He  said  I  could  help  them.  Can 
I  help  you  ?  I  have  not  any  money  here, 
but  I  have  some  at  home.  Will  you  come 
there  and  let  me  give  you  some  ?  I  should 
like  so  much  to  help  you  if  I  might." 

Berty  scarcely  knew  how  to  answer  these 
eager  questions,  so  unexpected  and  so  kind. 
What  answer  she  would  have  made  I  can- 
not tell;  for,  while  she  was  considering,  a 
stage  stopped  in  front  of  the  gate,  and  Mary 
called  out  eagerly,  "  There  is  cousin  John ! 
Oh,  cousin  John!  have  you  found  the  pock- 
et-book ?  have  you  some  money  with  you  ? 
Here  is  a  little  girl  who  has  no  father  or 
mother,  and  I  want  —  " 

Little  Mary  never  finished  her  sentence, 
for  Berty  heard  that  word  "  pocket-book," 
saw  and  recognized  the  strange  gentleman 
getting  out  of  the  stage,  and,  putting  both 
hands  to  her  bosom,  darted,  with  a  wild  cry 
of  terror,  out  into  the  street.  Tim  dropped 
his  basket  and  sprang  after  her ;  but  he  was 


84      BERTY  RUNS   AWAY   FOR  THE  LAST   TIME. 

too  late,  —  the  stage-horses,  frightened  by 
the  cry,  had  started  on,  trampling  poor 
Berty  under  their  feet. 

Ther?  was  a  moment's  confusion,  little 
Mary  and  the  stage-passengers  screaming, 
and  Tim,  the  Doctor,  and  Mrs.  Grey's  coach- 
man all  springing  to  -  the  horses'  heads 
while  a  little  crowd  of  people  gathered 
round.  Then  Dr.  John  pushed  his  way 
through  it,  bearing  Berty  in  his  arms,  bleed- 
ing, braised,  and  quite  insensible. 

"  Don't  bring  her  in  here,  John  !  pray 
don't !  "  called  out  aunt  Emily  from  the 
window,  —  to  which  she  and  Mrs.  Grey  had 
been  attracted  by  Mary's  cries,  —  as  she  saw 
the  young  Doctor  turning  towards  the  steps. 
"  She'll  die,  or  there'll  have  to  be  some  oper- 
ation, and  I  never  could  bear  it  in  the  world. 
Don't  bring  her  here." 

Dr.  John  made  an  impatient  gesture, 
and  looked  appealingly  towards  Mrs.  Grey : 
"  Shall  I  take  her  home,  grandmother  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  John,"  said  the  good  lady,  "  if 
you  do  not  think  it  too  far.  She  is  not 
dead  ?  " 

"  No  ;  only  fainted,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  and 


BERTY  RUNS  AWAY  FOR  THE  LAST  TIME.      85 

shockingly  hurt.  Bring  me  out  some  harts- 
horn, and  lend  me  your  handkerchiefs,  some 
of  you,"  added  he,  bearing  the  child  towards 
the  carriage. 

"  Cousin  John,"  said  Mary,  pushing  her 
way  through  the  crowd,  "  why  don't  you 
take  her  to  the  hospital?  It  is  so  much 
nearer,  and  you  were  going  there,  you 
know." 

"  The  very  thing.  You  have  more  sense 
than  any  *  of  us,  Polly,"  cried  the  Doctor, 
springing  into  the  carriage  with  Berty  still 
in  his  arms.  "  Drive  to  the  hospital,  Tom, 
carefully,  but  as  quickly  as  possible." 

"  And  her  brother,  —  here's  her  brother. 
Pray,  let  him  go  with  you,  cousin,"  said 
Mary,  pushing  poor,  frightened,  anxious  Tim 
towards  the  carriage-door. 

"  Certainly.  Jump  in,  my  little  fellow," 
said  the  Doctor,  kindly. 


<^&® 


CHAPTER   IX. 


THE    HOSPITAL. 

HEN  Berty  came  to  herself,  she 
was  lying  on  a  bed,  and  the 
strange  gentleman  was  bend- 
ing over  herewith  a  very  anx- 
ious expression  upon  his  pleas- 
ant face.  Her  first  impulse  was  to  try  run- 
ning away  once  more,  but  she  found  she  had 
not  strength  enough  to  lift  her  head  from  the 
pillow.  Then  she  became  conscious  that 
there  was  a  bandage  round  her  temples,  and 
that  a  kind-looking  lady  was  beside  the  gen- 
tleman, helping  him  to  unfasten  her  dress. 
"  They'll  find  the  pocket-book  now,"  thought 
she,  and  she  tried  to  put  up  her  hands  to 
shield  it ;  but  the  right  one  was  strangely 
powerless,  and  the  left  one  the  gentleman 
held  in  his,  while  he  felt  her  pulse.  When 
the  lady  came  to  the  pocket-book,  which 
she  presently  did   to  Berty's  great   distress, 


THE  HOSPITAL.  87 

she  took  it  in  her  hand,  and  squeezing  it 
a  little,  handed  it  to  the  gentleman,  say- 
ing, "  I  don't  know  what  it  is."  It  was  no 
wonder  she  did  not  know,  for  Berty  had 
wrapped  it  carefully  in  several  papers,  and 
tied  it  with  a  piece  of  string  before  she  left 
home  that  morning. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  the  gentleman,  pass- 
ing it  to  Tim,  who,  Berty  now  saw  for  the 
first  time,  was  standing  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed.  "  Never  mind,  Madam ;  only  make 
haste,  and  cut  the  sleeve  from  the  right 
arm  there.     I  suspect  it  is  broken." 

Berty  thought  it  very  strange  that  the 
gentleman  should  not  know  his  own  pocket- 
book  when  he  held  it  in  his  hand ;  but  she 
was  so  frightened  at  the  thought  of  her 
broken  arm  that  she  could  scarcely  feel 
relieved  at  her  escape.  The  sleeve  was  soon 
cut  away,  and  the  gentleman  lifted  the 
wounded  arm  gently,  and  felt  it  tenderly 
here  and  there.  The  pain  caused  by  the 
motion  was  so  great  that  Berty  could  scarce- 
ly help  crying  out  with  it ;  but  she  made  a 
great  effort,  an  1  kept  still. 

"  Yes,"  said  "Dr  John  at  length,  —  of  course 


88  THE   HOSPITAL. 

my  young  readers  have  guessed  that  Dr. 
John  and  the  strange  gentleman  were  one 
and  the  same  person,  —  "yes,  it  is  as  I  fear- 
ed :  the  shoulder  is  dislocated,  and  the  fore- 
arm broken." 

Tim  gave  a  pitying  exclamation,  and  Berty 
a  little  frightened  cry. 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,  my  dear,"  said  the  Doc- 
tor. "  It  is  not  so  very  bad.  If  you  are  only 
brave  and  patient,  we  can  put  it  all  right  again 
directly  ;  and  after  that  we  shall  take  such 
good  care  of  you  that  you  will  be  quite  sorry 
when  you  are  well  enough  to  go  away.  All 
our  little  people  are  sorry  when  their  time 
comes  to  leave  us  ;  are  they  not,  Mrs.  Gantz?" 

u  But  the  children,"  cried  Berty,  in  dismay, 
—  "  what  will  become  of  the  children  ?  " 

"  Sure,  ye  know  I'll  not  let  them  suffer, 
Berty,"  said  Tim.  "  Never  you  worry  for 
them." 

"  Yes,  we'll  take  care  of  the  children,"  said 
the  Doctor.  "  Never  fear  for  them.  Now, 
Berty,  see  how  still  you  can  lie  ;  and  you, 
Madam,  keep  hold  of  this  hand  while  I  feel 
of  that  poor  shoulder  again  ;  "  and,  with  a 
single   dexterous   motion,   Dr.   John  brought 


THE  HOSPITAL.  89 

the  bone  back  to  its  wonted  place.  Berty 
had  been  too  much  taken  by  surprise  to  cry 
out  at  first,  and  when  it  was  over  she  felt  too 
faint  even  to  groan. 

"  You  are  a  brave  little  girl,"  said  the  Doc- 
tor, wiping  the  pale  face  tenderly  and  hold- 
ing a  glass  of  water  to  Berty's  lips.  "  The 
worst  is  over ;  it  is  only  to  dress  the  arm  now 
and  attend  to  one  or  two  other  little  matters. 
My  boy,"  turning  to  Tim,  "  you  may  go 
down  to  the  carriage,  —  I  think  Tom  is  back 
by  this  time,  —  and  tell  him  to  drive  home 
with  you,  and  ask  Mrs.  Grey  to  put  up  a 
good  basket  of  provisions.  By  the  time  you 
are  back  again  I  shall  be  ready  to  go  with 
you." 

Tim  telegraphed,  in  answer  to  Berty's  im- 
ploring look,  that  he  would  take  care  of  the 
pocket-book,  and  would  not  betray  her;  for 
Tim,  it  must  be  remembered,  had  not  the 
slightest  notion  to  whom  it  belonged,  not 
having  noticed  little  Mary's  question,  and  he 
would  not,  for  the  world,  have  exposed  Berty 
to  the  risk  of  going  to  the  Tombs  by  taking 
it  to  the  station-house  now :  and  yet  the  hon- 
est boy  could  not  help  feeling  almost  guilty 


90  THE  HOSPITAL. 

as  he  put  the  package  in  his  pocket  and 
went  down  to  the  carriage. 

"  Now  we  are  rid  of  the  boy,"  said  Dr. 
John,  who  had  been  all  the  <time  busily  at 
work  putting  splints  and  bandages  upon  the 
broken  arm,  —  "  now  we  are  rid  of  the  boy, 
we'll  attend  to  that  bruise  on  the  side  and 
the  sprained  ankle ;  and  then  I  think  you 
can  change  her  clothing  a  little,  perhaps. 
Does  your  arm  feel  better  now,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  Much  better,"  answered  Berty,  faintly ; 
"  but  oh,  my  side !  " 

The  side  was,  indeed,  the  worst  injury,  for 
the  horse's  hoof  had  struck  there,  tearing 
off  the  skin  and  inflicting  a  frightful  bruise. 
The  Doctor  feared  at  first  that  a  rib  was 
broken,  but  finally  concluding  it  was  not,  he 
dressed  the  wound  carefully  and  bandaged 
the  sprained  ankle.  Then  the  good  nurse 
put  on  a  little  white  night-gown  in  place  of 
the  soiled  and  torn  dress ;  and,  by  the  time 
Tim  came  back,  Berty  was  much  more  com- 
fortable, though  still  very  faint  and  in  great 
pain. 

"  Your  sister  is  a  right  brave  little  girl," 
said  Dr.  John,  as  Tim  came  to  the  bedside. 


THE  HOSPITAL.  91 

"  I  never  had  a  grown-up  patient  who  be- 
haved better." 

"  Berty  's  not  one  of  the  whining  sort," 
Tim  answered ;  "  but,  sir,  she's  not  my  sister 
at  all." 

"  Ah !  is  she  not  ?      I  thought  you  were^ 
very  unlike,"  said  Dr.  John,  glancing  from 
one  to  the  other. 

"  She's  Dutch  and  I'm  Irish,  sir ;  but  we 
live  in  the  same  house." 

"  Fellow-lodgers,  eh  ?  That  explains  it. 
But  about  these  children,  now.  How  many 
are  there  ?  " 

"  Four,  sir,"  answered  Tim. 

"  And  you  don't  mean  to  say,"  said  the 
Doctor,  turning  to  Berty,  "that  there  is  no 
one  who  takes  care  of  them  but  you  ?  " 

"  Lieb  helps  me,"  answered  Berty,  faintly, 
turning  her  face  away  from  Dr.  John's  com- 
passionate gaze.  Berty  did  not  much  like 
talking  to,  or  looking  at,  the  Doctor,  kind  as 
he  was,  and  pleasant  as  he  looked,  for  the 
pocket-book  somehow  would  come  between. 

u  Who  is  Lieb  ?  "  asked  Dr.  John,  turning 
again  to  Tim. 

"  He  is  her  brother,  sir ;    but  he's  younger 


92  THE   HOSPITAL. 

than  she,  and  they've  no  one  else.  The  fa 
ther  died  at  sea,  and  the  mother  wint  afther 
him  last  spring,  sir.  It's  very  hard  upon 
Berty,  sir,  feeding  so  many  little  mouths , 
and  she'll  not  let  me  help  her,  though  I've 
tried,  many  a  time  and  oft." 

"  Hard  enough,  indeed,"  said  Dr.  John, 
exchanging  a  glance  of  surprise  and  pity 
with  the  nurse ;  "  but  she  can't  help  herself 
now,  my  lad  ;  so  you  and  I  will  take  care  of 
them  in  spite  of  her.  You  are  faint  and 
tired,  my  dear,"  he  added,  turning  to  Berty ; 
"but  all  you  have  to  do  now  is  to  rest  and 
get  well.  I  would  go  to  sleep*  directly,  if  I 
were  you.  We'll  look  after  the  children, 
this  young  gentleman  and  I ;  and  I  prom- 
ise you  they  shall  not  want  for  anything.  I 
will  see  you  again  to-morrow.  Good  night, 
now,  and  God  bless  you." 

Berty  could  only  murmur  a  faint  "  Thank 
you,"  in  answer  to  all  this  kindness  ;  for  the 
pocket-book  loomed  up  very  big  by  this  time, 
I  can  tell  you.  When  the  Doctor  and  Tim 
were  gone,  and  the  nurse,  after  smoothing 
the  bedclothes  and  arranging  the  pillows  very 
comfortably,  went  off  to  attend  to  her  other 


THE    HOSPITAL.  93 

patients,  Berty  tped  to  think  the  matter  ove* 
and  decide  what  to  do ;  but  she  was  much 
too  faint  and  tired  for  such  weary  work,  and 
soon,  in  spite  of  her  efforts,  obeyed  the  Doc- 
tor's parting  injunction,  and  fell  asleep. 

Great  was  the  amazement  at  Mrs.  Flana- 
gan's when  the  grand  carriage  drove  up,  and 
Dr.  John  and  Tim  got  out ;  and  dire  were 
the  lamentations  of  Berty's  little  family 
when  informed  of  the  accident.  But  Tim's 
glowing  account  of  the  comforts  of  the  hos- 
pital and  the  kindness  of  the  Doctor  and  the 
nurse  went  far  to  console  them  ;  and  Mrs. 
Grey's  famous  basket  of  provisions,  too, 
wTas  a  great  help :  for  these  poor  little  chil- 
dren seldom  tasted  anything  really  good ; 
and  even  Gottlieb  and  Lin  a,  who  were  the 
only  ones  old  enough  to  appreciate  their  sis- 
ter's misfortune,  could  not  help  heartily  en- 
joying the  wholesome  food. 

Fritzy  cried  a  little  for  his  Berty  when  bed- 
time came,  but  Lina  managed  to  soothe  him  ; 
and,  for  the  rest,  the  Doctor's  pleasant  face 
had  so  won  their  hearts  that  they  were  quite 
ready  to  credit  Tim's  assurance  that  both 
they  and  Berty  would  be  safe  under  his  care, 


94  THE    HOSPITAL. 

Tim  did  not  sleep  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
again,  but  spread  his  straw  pallet  at  the 
head  of  them,  close  to  the  children's  door,  in 
spite  of  uncle  Teddy's  remonstrance.  He 
did  not  mind  the  hard  bed  in  the  least ;  but 
the  pocket-book  pricked  so,  through  the  thin 
pillow  under  which  it  was  laid  for  safe-keep- 
ing, that  Tim  resolved  to  bring  Berty  to  terms 
on  the  morrow,  or  never  to  take  charge  of  it 
again. 


CHAPTER  X. 


MRS.    GREY'S    SUSPICION. 

R.  JOHN  was  met  at  the  dool 
on  his  return  by  little  Mary 
who  had  been  sitting  at  the 
window  an  hour  or  more, 
watching  for  him  to  come. 
She  had  worked  off  a  little  of  her  enthusi- 
asm in  packing  the  basket  of  provisions,  but 
was  still  full  of  eager  curiosity  and  sym- 
pathy. Grandmamma,  too,  was  very  anx- 
ious to  hear  more  of  the  little  sufferer  at 
the  hospital,  and  the  helpless  children  of 
whom  little  Mary  had  told  her.  So  Dr.  John 
was  obliged  to  go  over  the  whole  story  of 
Berty's  injuries,  and  her  patient  endurance 
of  the  painful  operation  and  dressing,  —  of 
her  anxiety  for  her  little  ones, —  of  Tim's 
touching  account  of  the  helpless  family,  given 
during  their  drive, —  and,  last  of  all,  he  was 
made  to  describe  Mrs.  Flanagan's  house,  and 
the  room  in  the  attic,  and  the  poor  little 
orphans  themselves. 


9b  MRS.   GREY'S   SUSPICION. 

"  But  there  is  one  thing,"  said  Dr.  John 
when  he  had  finished  his  story,  and  answered 
every  question  Mary  could  think  of,  —  "there 
is  one  thing  for  which  I  cannot  account.  The 
child  was  talking  to  you,  Polly,  when  the 
stage  stopped  ;  was  she  not  ?  What  could 
have  possessed  her  to  dart  into  the  street  in 
such  a  frantic  way,  I  cannot  tell;  and  the 
boy  seemed  quite  as  much  at  a  loss  to  ac- 
count for  it  as  I.  What  were  you  saying  to 
her,  Polly?" 

"  I  don't  remember,"  answered  Mary, 
thoughtfully,  —  "  Oh,  yes,  I  do,  too !  She  had 
been  telling  me  about  the  children,  you  know, 
and  I  offered  to  help  her,  and  then  I  remem- 
bered that  I  hadn't,  my  purse  ;  and  then  I 
saw  you,  and  I  asked  if  you  had  found  your 
pockat-book,  because  I  wanted  to  borrow 
some  money;  and  then  she  ran.  I  know 
now  I  thought  it  was  because  she  didn't 
want  to  take  it ;  and  then  came  the  acci- 
dent and  put  everything  out  of  my  head." 

"  But  about  the  pocket-book,  John,"  said 
Mrs.  Grey,  "  I  have  not  heard  you  say.  Pid 
you  find  it,  or  get  any  trace  of  it  ?  " 

u  Not  the  least.  I  sent  an  advertisement  to 
the  '  Herald '  and  another  to  the  '  Times,'  and 


MRS.  GREY'S  SUSPICION.  97 

stopped  the  drafts  at  the  bank,  and  left  the 
description,  with  the  numbers  of  the  checks 
and  a  few  of  the  larger  notes,  at  the  police- 
office.  I  don't  see  that  I  can  do  any  more. 
It  is  a  large  sum,  more  than  I  can  well  af- 
ford to  lose ;  but  if  it  is  gone  I  cannot  help 
it.  So  you  need  not  look  so  doleful,  Polly.  I 
shall  get  along  without  it  somehow." 

"  If  you  would  only  let  me  give  you  some 
of  mine,  cousin  John.  I  have  so  much  more 
than  I  know  what  to  do  with." 

"  Have  you  ?  Well,  I  shall  know  where 
to  come,  then,  when  I  get  hard  up." 

"  I  wouldn't  lend  him  any,  if  I  were  you, 
Polly,"  said  Mrs.  Grey,  smiling.  "  He'll  be 
sure  to  lose  it,  such  a  careless  fellow.  I 
always  told  you  what  would  come  of  it, 
John,  sticking  your  purse  in  such  out-of-the- 
way  places." 

"  It  was  in  my  breeches-pocket  this  time, 
Grandma, — just  where  you  taught  me  \o 
keep  it  when  I  was  a  boy." 

"  As  if  you  were  anything  else  now ! "  said 
Mrs.  Grey,  shaking  her  head  at  him ;  "  and 
I  don't  believe  you  know  in  the  least  where 
it  was." 

7 


98  MRS.  GREY'S  SUSPICION.. 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  insisted  Dr.  John,  "  because  1 
remember  it  was  in  the  way  when  I  wanted 
a  dime  from  the  bottom  of  that  same  pocket 
for  a  poor  little  girl  at  the  crossing,  and  I 
took  it  out  —  " 

"  And  never  put  it  back  again,"  interrupted 
his  grandmother.  "  There,  I  knew  just  how  it 
was.  You're  not  fit  to  be  trusted  with  a 
purse  at  all.  You  must  leave  it  at  home 
next  time  with  Polly  and  I.  We  know  bet- 
ter than  to  lay  a  stuffed  pocket-book  down 
upon  a  stage-seat,  as  if  it  was  a  paper 
parcel." 

Dr.  John  appeared  to  pay  very  little  atten- 
tion to  the  old  lady's  raillery.  He  was  think- 
ing too  intently,  —  trying  to  remember  some- 
thing, if  one  might  judge  by  his  knitted 
brows.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  at  length,  as  if  he 
had  gotten  at  it  at  last,  —  "  yes ;  I  am  sure 
of  it.  The  child  at  the  crossing  and  this  lit- 
tle Berty  are  the  same.  I  thought  I  had  seen 
her  somewhere.  And  what  is  more,"  he 
added,  interrupting  Mary's  wondering  excla- 
mation, —  "  what  is  more,  I  saw  her  again  at 
that  same  crossing  when  I  went  down  town 
this  morning ;  and  I  was  feeling  for  a  dime 


MRS.  GREY'S   SUSPICION.  99 

when  she  dropped  her  broom  and  ran  off  up 
the  street  as  if  the  sight  of  me  had  fright- 
ened her  out  of  her  wits.  Look  at  me, 
Polly.  Am  I  so  very  ugly  ?  Do  I  look  like 
an  ogre  to  frighten  little  girls  ?  M 

"  You  are  not  a  bit  like  an  ogre,  cousin 
John,"  said  Polly,  patting  lovingly  the 
comely ,  face,  which  bent  down  to  hers. 
"  You  are  very  handsome,  and  you  know 
it.  Nobody  could  be  frightened  at  you, 
and  I'm  sure  Berty  wasn't;  but  it  is  very 
strange." 

u  It  is  more  than  strange,"  said  Mrs.  Grey, 
thoughtfully.  "  I  don't  like  the  look  of  it  at 
all.  Is  it  possible,  John,  that  the  child  has 
your  purse  ?  " 

"  My  purse  !  "  cried  Dr.  John,  astonished. 
"  Surely  not ;  how  can  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Grandmamma ! "  said  Polly,  indig- 
nantly ;  "  that  good,  poor,  innocent  little  Ber- 
ty!    How  can  you  say  such  cruel  things?  " 

u  Think  a  moment,  John,"  pursued  the  old 
lady,  giving  little  heed  to  Mary's  remon- 
strance. "  You  are  certain  you  have  not 
seen  it  since  you  took  it  out  to  give  this  child 
the  dime  ?  " 


100  MRS.  GREY'S   SUSPICION. 

"  I  certainly  have  not.  I  missed  it  when  1 
put  my  hand  in  again  to  get  my  fare." 

"  And  you  are  sure  you  had  it  then  ?  " 

"  As  certain  as  I  can  be  of  anything ;  for  I 
remember  thinking  how  much  trouble  you 
gave  me  by  insisting  upon  my  keeping  it 
in  such  an  inconvenient  place." 

"  And  this  child  has  run  away  from  you 
twice  now  in  the  most  unaccountable  man- 
ner," the  old  lady  went  on ;  "  and  if  it  had 
been  all  right,  after  getting  a  dime  from  you 
once,  she  would  have  been  certain  to  wait 
for  another.  It  is  not  like  these  street-chil- 
dren, whatever  Polly  may  think,  to  refuse 
what  is  offered  to  them.  It  is  very  sad.  I 
am  quite  as  unwilling  to  believe  it  as  Mary 
can  be  ;  but,  if  you  are  certain  you  had  it, 
and  there  were  no  pickpockets  in  the  car,  I'm 
afraid  this  little  Berty  knows  something  about 
the  pocket-book.  John,  I'm  very  much  afraid 
it's  not  all  right." 

Dr.  John  started  out  of  another  fit  of  mus- 
ing as  his  grandmother  ceased  speaking,  and 
glanced  at  Mary,  who  was  by  this  time 
weeping  bitterly  over  what  seemed  to  her 
these  cruel  suspicions  of   her  little  favorite. 


MRS.  GREY'S   SUSPICION.  101 

"  Well,  Grandma,"  said  he,  with  a  meaning 
look  at  the  old  lady,  "  I  can't  be  at  all  sure 
about  the  pickpockets.  I  may  have  had  one 
for  my  next  neighbor,  for  aught  I  know ;  or  I 
may  have  laid  the  purse  down  on  the  seat,  as 
you  said.  It  would  be  just  like  me,  I  dare 
say  ;  so  we  won't  suspect  anybody,  — ■  we'll 
wait  and  see  ;  and  meantime  we'll  put  the 
whole  matter  out  of  our  heads." 

"  And  you  don't  think  it's  Berty,  cousin 
John  ?  "  said  Mary,  drying  her  tears  ;  "so  I 
may  use  some  of  my  money  for  her  and  for 
the  little  ones,  and  I  may  hope  it  i?  like  doing 
it  for  Him  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  Polly  ;  how  can  you  doubt  it  ?  " 

"I  was  afraid,"   said    Polly,  timidly,  "if 

Berty  was  a  thief,  you  know  she  would  not 

be  one  of   his  brethren.      Do   you   think  it 

would  be  the  same  ?  " 

"  Just  the  same,  if  it  is  done  for  his  sake." 
"  Then,  cousin  John,  will  you  tell  me  how 
to  help  them  most  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  you  can  do  much  for  Berty 
now,"  said  Dr.  John  ;  "  you  will  have  to  leave 
her  to  the  tender  mercy  of  Mrs.  Gantz  and 
myself;  but  those  little  people  down  there 


102  MRS.  GREY'S   SUSPICION. 

are  sadly  in  need  of  clothing.  They  are 
the  oddest-looking  little  mortals ;  the  girls' 
dresses  are  like  patchwork  quilts,  and  as  for 
the  boy,  —  well,  I  shouldn't  care  to  have 
Berty  for  my  tailor,  poor  child.  I  think  the 
best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  get  Grandma  to 
go  with  you  there  in  the  morning,  and  find 
out  what  they  need.  I  dare  say  you'll  get 
rid  of  all  your  superfluous  cash.  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  you  had  none  left  by  the  time  I 
come  to  want,  and  then  we  shall  both  have 
to  fall  back  upon  Grandma." 

So  Polly  soon  lost  the  sad  suspicions  in  a 
vision  of  coats  and  frocks  and  shoes ;  but 
Dr.  John,  through  all  his  kind  plans,  was  tor- 
mented by  an  uncomfortable  remembrance 
of  that  little  package  which  Mrs.  Gantz  had 
taken  from  Berty's  bosom,  and  of  the  tel- 
egram which  had  passed  between  his  little 
patient  and  Tim.  I  say  uncomfortable ; 
for,  though  Dr.  John  would  have  been  very 
glad  to  find  his  purse,  he  would  rather  have 
found  it  anywhere  else  than  in  Berty's  or 
Tim's  possession. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


THE    CHAPEL    SERVICE,  AND    WHAT    CAME    OF   IT. 

HE  morning  sunshine  streamed 
through  the  lofty  windows  of 
the  children's  ward,  lighting  up 
cheerfully  the  snowy  beds  and 
the  pale  faces  of  their  little  oc- 
cupants, and  waking  Berty  from  her  feverish, 
uneasy  slumber.  She  was  puzzled  at  first 
by  the  unfamiliar  objects  around  ;  but  the 
bandage  on  her  forehead,  with  the  power- 
less arm  and  aching  side,  brought  back 
the  remembrance  of  the  accident,  even  be- 
fore the  kind  nurse  appeared  with  her  cheer- 
ful, motherly  face  and  pleasant  greeting. 
This  good  lady's  watchful  attentions,  the 
morning  bath  so  tenderly  administered,  the 
delicate  invalid  breakfast  so  invitingly  spread 
upon  the  little  tray,  and  the  bright  room 
where  even   suffering  was  made  to  look  so 


104  THE  CHAPEL   SERVICE. 

cheerful  and  comely,  were  all  so  new  and 
so  delightful,  that  Berty  thought  it  almost  a 
privilege  to  be  ill  in  such  a  place. 

Afterwards,  too,  when  breakfast  was  over, 
and  the  nurse  propped  her  up  with  pillows, 
and  left  her  to  attend  to  other  duties,  Berty 
was  very  happy,  though  her  arm  and  side 
were  still  very  painful.  She  thought  she 
could  never  tire  of  looking  at  the  beautiful 
prints  upon  the  walls,  nor  of  watching  and 
listening  to  her  young  companions,  who 
seemed  to  be  quite  at  home,  and  called  to 
each  other,  from  bed  to  bed,  as  merrily  as 
any  well  children  could  do.  But  presently 
some  one  spoke  of  the  Doctor,  hoping  he 
would  come  early;  and,  at  the  mention  of 
that  name,  all  Berty 's  joy  and  contentment 
melted  away  in  a  moment,  and  she  sank 
back  upon  her  pillow,  with  a  look  of  care  and 
weariness  upon  her  face  which  made  all  the 
children  pity  her  very  much  indeed. 

The  old  tormenting  question,  What  to  do, 
had  come  back  again,  and  it  seemed  to  Berty 
more  troublesome  than  ever  before.  The 
Doctor  had  been  so  kind,  both  to  her  and 
to  her  little  ones,  —  how  could  she  bear  to 


THE  CHAPEL  SERVICE.  105 

do  him  such  injury  as  to  keep  his  property? 
But  he  evidently  knew  nothing  about  her 
possessing  it,  —  he  had  held  it  in  his  hand 
without  seeming  to  have  the  least  suspicion  ; 
and  now  she  was  ill  she  had  no  chance  of 
earning  anything :  she  could  never  accom- 
plish her  design  in  any  other  way. 

Just  in  the  midst  of  these  painful  thoughts, 
the  nurse  came  in  ushering  Tim  to  pay  her 
his  morning  visit.  Tim  had  left  home  with 
the  firm  determination  to  make  Berty  do  the 
right  thing  about  the  pocket-book,  or  else 
refuse  to  have  anything  more  to  do  with  it ; 
but,  remembering  her  strange  conduct  about 
it  from  the  first,  he  was  a  little  shy  about 
beginning.  So  he  sat  down  by  the  bed,  and 
gave  Berty  a  long  and  glowing  account  of 
the  Doctor's  kindness  to  the  children,  and  the 
great  fancy  they  had  taken  to  him,  —  a  very 
good  way  of  beginning,  if  Tim  had  only 
known  it.  After  he  had  spun  this  subject 
out  as  long  as  he  could,  and  answered  all 
Berty's  questions  about  little  Fritz,  he  came 
to  a  dead  stop  for  a  moment,  and  was  just 
mustering  courage  to  commence  his  lecture, 
when  a  strain  of  sweet   music  floating   in 


106  THE  CHAPEL   SERVICE. 

seemed  to  fill  all  the  hall  with  a  cheerful 
solemnity. 

"  What  is  it,  Tim  ? "  asked  Berty,  after 
listening  a  moment. 

"  It's  the  organ,  I  think,"  answered  Tim. 

"  The  organ  !     Where  ?  " 

"  Why,  in  the  chapel,  sure ;  don't  ye  know, 
Berty,  there's  a  chapel  here,  a  little  church 
like,  right  in  the  middle  of  the  building? 
All  the  halls  open  into  it ;  and  it's  beautiful, 
I  tell  you." 

"  But  it's  not  Sunday,  Tim." 

"  No ;  but  I  think  they  has  service  every 
day,  —  leastways,  I  saw  the  people  sitting 
there  whin  I  wint  out  last  night,  waiting 
like.  But  it's  a  feast  to-day,  Berty;  it's 
All-Saints,  ye  know,  —  the  first  of  Novem- 
ber. Belike  they'd  have  service  to-day,  if 
ever.  I  was  to  go  to  Mass  meself  but  for 
you ;  thin  I  put  it  off  till  Vespers,"  answered 
devout  Tim. 

"  All  -  Saints,"  said  Berty,  thoughtfully. 
"  Ah,  yes,  I  know, —  Das  Fest  Allerheiligen : 
they  keep  it  in  my  country,  too.  Mother 
took  us  to  die  Kirche  last  year,  because  of 
father,  and  now  she  is  with  him  in  das  Pa- 


THE  CHAPEL  SERVICE.  107 

radies.  I  meant  to  remember  them  to-day; 
I'm  so  glad  this  puts  me  in  mind." 

The  music  ceased,  and  a  nurse,  watching 
her  patient  near,  held  up  a  warning  finger. 
There  was  a  moment's  silence,  Tim  bending 
his  head  reverently,  and  Berty  closing  her 
eyes,  the  only  outward  sign  of  which  she 
was  capable ;  then  the  service  began.  "  If 
we  say  that  we  have  no  sin,  we  deceive  our- 
selves, and  the  truth  is  not  in  us ;  but  if  we 
confess  our  sins,  God  is  faithful  and  just  to 
forgive  us  our  sins,  and  to  cleanse  us  from 
all  unrighteousness."  A  strange  beginning, 
perhaps,  for  a  service  in  commemoration  of 
the  saints  departed;  but  very  well  suited, 
assuredly,  to  make  saints  of  those  who  were 
left  behind.  Perhaps  the  good  clergyman 
had  some  such  case  as  Berty's  in  his  mind ; 
certainly,  he  could  have  chosen  no  sentence 
which  would  have  fixed  her  attention  more 
securely. 

The  beautiful  ritual  which  followed  was 
quite  unfamiliar  to  both*  Tim  and  Berty, 
the  one  being  a  Lutheran,  and  the  other  a 
Papist ;  but  the  slow,  distinct  utterance  of 
the  minister  rendered  every  word   perfectly 


108  THE  CHAPEL   SERVICE. 

audible,  and  the  solemn  confession  of  sin  is 
fitted  for  all  who  have  named  the  name 
of  Christ.  When  it  came  to  the  Lord's 
Prayer,  all  the  children  joined.  Tim,  recog- 
nizing the  Paternoster,  fell  upon  his  knees ; 
and  Berty,  lifting  her  well  hand  in  sup- 
plication, repeated  her  Vaterunser  with  the 
rest. 

As  the  service  went  on  with  Psalm,  and 
Lesson,  and  Collect,  Tim  noticed  that  the 
children  seemed  to  consider  themselves  quite 
a  part  of  the  congregation,  joining  in  the 
responses,  and  singing  with  a  hearty  zeal 
which  pleased  him  very  much ;  but  as  for 
Berty,  though  she  still  lay  with  her  eyes 
closed  and  her  hand  raised,  her  mind  had 
wandered  far  away  from  the  scene,  around 
the  dear  ones  she  had  lost.  She  tried  to 
recall  her  father's  dying  words,  her  mother's 
parting  counsel.  She  wondered  in  her  troub- 
led heart  whether  they  could  still  look  down 
upon  their  child,  —  whether  they  could  know 
her  uncomfortable  secret.  Then  she  thought 
of  the  Doctor  again,  and  of  his  kindness  to 
the  little  ones.  Ah,  if  her  mother  knew  it, 
how  grateful  she  would  be,  how  she  would 


THE   CHAPEL   SERVICE.  109 

think  nothing  too  much  to  do  for  her  chil- 
dren's friend.  What  would  she  say,  how 
would  she  feel,  if  she  knew  how  her  daughter 
proposed  to  requite  him  ? 

JBut,  all  at  once,  as  the  notes  of  a  hymn 
died  away  and  the  clergyman's  voice  was 
heard  again,  it  seemed  to  Berty  that  it  took 
a  more  stern  and  solemn  tone.  She  could 
not  help  listening,  and,  while  she  listened,  the 
words  seemed  to  carry  her  straight  into  the 
presence  of  Him  "  to  whom  all  hearts  are 
open,  all  desires  known,  and  from  whom 
no  secrets  are  hid."  She  had  thought  of  her 
mother,  and  of  the  Doctor,  and  wondered 
what  they  would  think  if  they  knew ;  but 
here  was  One  who  did  know,  from  whom 
she  could  not  hide  her  secret  if  she  would. 
What  did  He  think  ?  How  would  her  "  de- 
sires "  bear  His  inspection  ? 

Berty  trembled  with  terror  as  she  asked 
herself  this  question,  and,  even  as  she  asked 
it,  the  answer  came;  for  the  solemn  voice 
went  on  to  the  rehearsal  of  the  familiar 
Commandments  which  she  had  learned  at 
her  mother's  knee ;  while,  at  the  end  of 
each  one,  the  response  swelled  up  from  the 


110  THE  CHAPEL  SERVICE. 

chapel,  — "  Lord,  have  mercy  upon  us,  and 
incline  our  hearts  to  keep  this  law."  Berty 
held  her  breath  as  if  waiting  for  a  blow ;  and 
at  last  it  came,  in  that  stern,  solemn  voice,  — 
"  Thou  shall  not  steal"  Tim,  too,  had  been 
waiting  for  this,  and  his  voice  joined  in  the 
response,  "  Lord,  have  mercy  upon  us,  and 
incline  our  hearts  to  keep  this  law,"  with  a 
startling  emphasis,  which  went  to  Berty's 
heart ;  then,  almost  before  the  words  had 
left  his  lips,  he  leaned  forward  and  whispered 
earnestly,  "  Say  it,  Berty,  —  say  it  for  your 
life."  It  seemed  to  Berty  almost  as  if  her 
life  did  hang  for  a  moment  in  the  balance,  — 
only  a  moment  though,  for  she  could  not 
hesitate.  She  raised  her  hand  again,  and 
murmured  the  petition  so  faintly  that  Tim 
could  scarcely  hear.  Another  heard,  and 
answered  it,  as  we  shall  presently  see ;  and 
Tim  heard,  too,  and  gave  thanks  upon  his 
knees  that  his  Berty  was  saved. 

"  Now,  Berty,"  said  he,  rising  when  the 
service  was  ended,  and  taking  the  package 
from  his  pocket,  —  "  now,  Berty,  you  know 
what  I'm  going  to  do,  —  take  this  to  the  sta- 
tion right  off." 


THE  CHAPEL  SERVICE.  Ill 

«  To  the  station  !  What  for,  Tim  ?  Of 
course  that  would  be  easier ;  but  maybe  they 
wouldn't  find  him  ;  and  then,  Tim,  don't  you 
think  he  ought  to  know  ?  It  would  be  very 
hard,  to  be  sure,  but  don't  you  think  I  ought 
to  tell  him  ?  " 

"  An'  who's  him,  Berty  ?  "  asked  Tim,  quite 
puzzled. 

"  The  Doctor,  of  course.  Oh,  Tim,  didn't 
you  know  it  was  the  Doctor's  ?  That's  one 
thing  why  I  couldn't  do  it." 

"  The  Docther's !  You  don't  mane  to  tell 
me  now,  Berty,  that  this  pocket-book  belongs 
to  the  Docther  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Tim  ;  he  gave  me  a  dime  there  at 
the  crossing,  and  this  dropped,  and  I  ran 
after  the  stage,  but  they  didn't  notice  me, 
and  then  at  first  I  meant  to  take  it  to  the 
station  or  something  ;  but  I  thought  of  my 
Christmas  tree,  and  so  —  and  so  —  I  didn't." 

"  Well,  Berty,"  said  Tim,  after  a  long, 
thoughtful  pause,  "  I'm  glad  I  didn't  know 
the  rights  of  the  matther  till  ye  had  come  to 
a  betther  mind,  for  I  can't  say  I  think  well 
of  it.  So  it's  running  away  from  him  ye 
were,  and  no  wonder ;    and    he   had   it   in 


112  THE   CHAPEL   SERVICE. 

his  own  hand  too,  sure  enough.  Yes,  it's 
well  I  didn't  know,  for  I  should  have  given 
it  back  to  him  straight,  and  it'll  look  betther 
coming  from  you." 

Berty  quite  agreed  that  it  would  look 
better  coming  from  her,  and  yet  her  heart 
sank  within  her  when  she  saw  the  Doctor's 
pleasant  face  appear  at  the  door.  He  came 
straight  towards  her  bed,  only  nodding  to 
the  other  children  as  he  passed  them. 

"  Good  morning,  Berty,"  said  he ;  "  how 
do  you  find  yourself  to-day?" 

Berty  did  not  wait  to  answer.  Her  cour- 
age was  melting  away  so  rapidly,  that  she 
felt  she  had  no  time  to  lose.  She  took  the 
pocket-book  from  Tim  and  held  it  out  to  the 
Doctor. 

"  Here  it  is.  Oh,  take  it !  take  it,  quick ! " 
said  she,  and  burst  into  tears. 

The  Doctor  took  the  package  in  his  hand, 
and  stood  looking  from  one  to  the  other.  He 
had  put  his  suspicions  so  entirely  away  that 
they  did  not  readily  return. 

"  What  is  it,  Tim  ?  "  said  he,  at  last. 

"  It's  a  pocket-book,  sir,  that  Berty  found. 
She  says  it's  yours." 


THE  CHAPEL   SERVICE.  113 

The  Doctor  changed  color  then,  and  tear- 
ing the  cover  away,  examined  the  enclosure. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  it  is  mine.  Where  did 
you  get  it  ?  " 

"  Please  count  the  money  then,  sir,"  said 
honest  Tim,  before  Berty  could  command 
her  voice  to  answer.  "  I  kept  it  for  her  last 
night.  I  should  like  you  to  see  if  it's  all 
right." 

"  Why  did  you  not  give  it  to  me  then  ?  " 
asked  Dr.  John,  sharply,  opening  the  pocket- 
book,  and  glancing  rapidly  over  the  contents. 

"  Oh,  sir,"  said  Berty,  finding  her  voice 
instantly,  — "  Oh,  sir,  you  must  not  blame 
Tim ;  he  did  not  know  it  was  yours.  I 
never  told  him,  and  he  was  always  at  me  to 
find  the  owner.  I  meant  to  give  it  back  at 
first,  and  I  should,  but  for  the  Christmas  tree. 
I  wanted  it  so  much,  so  very  much,  and  I 
could  never  earn  enough.  I'm  very,  very 
sorry  ;   but  you  must  not  blame  Tim." 

"  It  is  all  right,"  said  Dr.  John,  nodding  to 
Tim,  and  putting  the  purse  in  his  pocket. 
u  Now,  Berty,"  he  added,  soothingly,  "  you 
must  not  cry  any  more ;  it  is  all  right  and 
safe,  and  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you  for 
8 


114  THE  CHAPEL   SERVICE. 

bringing  it  back  ;  it  is  not  every  one  who 
would  have  done  it.  Stop  crying  now,  and 
tell  me  how  you  got  it,  and  about  this 
Christmas  tree.     I  do  not  understand." 

"  I  wanted  one  for  the  children,  sir,"  said 
Berty,  composing  her  voice  a  little  ;  "  they 
never  saw  one,  you  see,  but  I  did ;  and 
Madame  Hansmann  told  them  about  those 
in  the  old  country.  So  I  heard  them  one 
night  wishing  for  one,  —  only  they  said 
they  could  not  have  it,  because  they  had 
no  one  but  me.  Then  I  wished  so  much 
to  get  one,  because  I  promised  mother  to 
take  such  care  of  them ;  and  I  asked  Biddy, 
and  she  said  they  cost  pounds  and  pounds ; 
and  I  did  not  believe  quite  in  the  fairy,  so  I 
thought  I  must  earn  it ;  and  I  felt  very  bad, 
and  almost  gave  it  up.  Then  I  thought 
about  Jesus,  and  how  mother  said  he  would 
be  our  friend ;  so  I  prayed,  and  I  hoped  he 
would  help  me.  Then,  the  very  first  day, 
when  you  gave  me  a  dime,  the  pocket-book 
came  tumbling  down  beside  me,  and  I  did 
not  know  if  it  was  yours  ;  but  I  ran  after 
the  stage,  but  nobody  noticed ;  and  then  I 
thought  it  might  be  sent  because  I  prayed, 


THE  CHAPEL   SERVICE.  115 

you  know,  —  only,  when  I  showed  it  to  Tim 
he  said  it  was  as  bad  as  stealing.  That  made 
me  angry,  and  I  would  not  speak  to  him  ; 
but  I  was  not  happy  with  it  at  all  when  I 
meant  to  keep  it.  Then  in  the  morning  I 
saw  you  at  the  crossing,  and  I  thought  you 
were  looking  for  me,  so  I  ran  away  ;  and, 
while  I  was  talking  to  the  little  girl,  you 
came  again,  so  I  got  all  wild  like,  and  ran 
into  the  street.  Then  you  were  so  kind,  I 
did  not  know  about  keeping  it  last  night, 
only  for  the  tree  ;  but  this  morning  I  thought 
of  mother,  because  of  the  feast  of  All- Saints, 
and  the  minister  said  the  Commandments, 
and  I  could  not  keep  it  any  longer  for  the 
children,  or   anybody,  —  don't  you  see  ?  " 

I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  Dr.  John  did  see, 
for  I  know  that  his  eyes  were  full  of  tears 
when  Berty  finished  ;  but  he  seemed  to  un- 
derstand quite  clearly  for  all  that. 

"  Yes,  Berty,"  said  he,  "  I  see  that  you  have 
had  a  great  temptation,  and  have  won  through 
it  bravely.  And  as  for  Tim  here,  I  beg  his 
pardon  ;  I  perceive  he  is  a  very  honest  fel- 
low. But  he  must  bid  you  good-morning 
now,  for  I  want  to  look  at  that  side  of 
yours." 


116  THE  CHAPEL  SERVICE. 

Tim  felt  a  little  disappointed  that  Dr.  John 
did  not  offer  Berty  something  as  a  reward 
for  bringing  back  his  money,  for  Tim  could 
not  bear  that  the  Christmas  tree  should  be 
given  up  after  all ;  but  still  he  had  great  con- 
fidence in  the  Doctor,  and  did  not  doubt  but 
he  would  make  it  all  right  somehow.  So 
he  went  away  to  his  peddling  with  a  light 
heart. 

As  for  Berty,  she  thought  she  had  never 
felt  so  happy  in  her  life,  even  though  her 
wounds  were  very  painful,  and  the  Christmas- 
tree  tapers  had  utterly  gone  out;  for  there 
was  something  shining  upon  Berty  which 
lighted  up  her  heart  far  more  brightly  than 
any  Christmas  tapers  ever  could,  —  her  Heav- 
enly Father's  smile.  And  the  Doctor,  too, 
instead  of  being  angry,  seemed  kinder  than 
ever.  He  dressed  her  side  and  ankle  very 
tenderly,  and  then  sat  down  by  the  bed  and 
talked  for  a  long  time,  asking  many  questions 
about  her  family,  and  especially  about  the 
uncle  Gottlieb  in  the  old  country,  of  whom 
little  Mary  had  told  him.  Berty  knew  very 
little  about  him,  except  that  he  was  her 
mother's    only   brother,  —  that    he    lived    in 


THE  CHAPEL  SERVICE.  117 

Frankfort,  and  belonged  to  one  of  the  bands 
which  she  remembered  with  such  delight  as 
playing  at  the  concerts  on  the  feast-days. 
Madame  Hansmann  had  written  to  him,  it 
seemed,  after  her  mother's  death ;  but  they 
had  never  received  any  answer. 

"  Well,  Polly,"  said  Dr.  John,  when  he 
went  home  that  evening,  "  I  have  found  my 
pocket-book  ;  and,  what  is  more,  I  have  got 
hold  of  a  famous  plan  for  spending  your  sur- 
plus money." 

"  I  have  a  plan,  too,  cousin  John,"  said 
Polly ;  "  but  let  us  hear  yours  first." 

So  the  Doctor  told  Berty's  story,  which  you 
will  not  care  to  hear  for  the  third  time  ;  and 
as  for  his  famous  plan,  I  mean  to  keep  that 
for  a  good  ending  to  my  story.  Polly  liked 
it  very  much,  and  so  I  dare  say  will  you ; 
but  she  could  not  give  up  her  own,  and  so 
it  was  decided  that  both  should  be  carried 
out. 

"  I  am  glad,"  said  Polly,  when  all  was 
finally  arranged,  —  "  I  am  glad,  cousin  John, 
that  you  found  your  pocket-book,  for  I  should 
not  wonder  if  you  had  to  lend  me  some 
money,  after  all ; "  and  Dr.  John  thought  to 


118  THE  CHAPEL  SERVICE. 

himself,  as  he  looked  down  at  the  little  girl's 
glowing,  happy  face,  that  any  amount  of 
money  would  have  been  well  spent  in  work- 
ing such  a  change  as  these  kind  schemes 
had  made  in  his  sad,  little  cousin. 


.^ss#W3-fc 


CHAPTER   XII. 


THE    WISH    FULFILLED. 


ARY'S  plan,  which  developed 
itself  the  next  day,  turned  out 
to  be  a  project  for  taking  the 
children,  in  their  new  clothes,  to 
visit  their  sister  at  the  hospital. 
She  had  stipulated  that  nothing  should  be 
said  to  Berty,  though  she  had  taken  care  to 
give  Tim  warning  that  he  might  be  on  hand 
to  enjoy  the  surprise.  It  was  a  beautiful, 
bright  autumn  day,  and  everything  worked 
to  Mary's  satisfaction.  Grandmamma  seemed 
to  enjoy  it  as  much  as  she ;  and  even  Tom, 
who  had  grumbled  a  good  deal  at  bringing 
his  horses  so  often  into  such  "  ojus  "  streets, 
could  not  resist  a  contagious  grin  as  he 
lifted  the  happy  children,  one  by  one,  into 
the  carriage. 

It   was    indeed    a   wonderful    delight    to 
Berty's  little   family.     Driving    through   the 


120  THE  WISH  FULFILLED. 

gay  streets,  where  Mrs.  Grey  took  care  that 
Tom  should  go,  in  the  handsome,  easy  car- 
riage, would  have  been  pleasure  enough,  but 
going  in  such  a  way  to  see  Berty,  whom  they 
had  missed  so  much,  was  almost  more  than 
they  could  bear.  Then  the  wide  lawn  of  the 
hospital,  where  the  little  pale  children  were 
playing  in  the  sunshine,  was  a  new  surprise  ; 
and  the  children's  ward,  with  its  lofty  walls 
and  little  white  beds,  in  one  of  which  sister 
Berty  lay,  looking  so  placid  and  happy, 
seemed  like  a  glimpse  of  paradise. 

You  will  guess,  of  course,  how  joyfully 
Berty  received  them ;  how  she  hugged  little 
Fritz  with  her  one  arm,  and  set  him  on  the 
bed  beside  her,  while  she  made  the  others 
stand  off,  one  by  one,  that  she  might  admire 
them  in  the  comfortable  new  clothing;  how 
she  thanked  Mrs.  Grey  and  the  Doctor  and 
Mary ;  how  Tim  grinned  from  ear  to  ear, 
and  Dr.  John  rubbed  his  hands,  and  Polly 
clapped  hers,  and  the  nurse  and  old  Mrs. 
Grey  both  cried,  and  the  hospital  children 
sat  up  in  bed  and  laughed  at  the  merry 
hubbub,  until  the  matron  came  up  and 
chided   them    all  for  making   such  a  noise. 


THE  WISH  FULFILLED.  121 

and  threatened  Dr.  John  with  a  policeman  if 
he  did  not  keep  his  party  quiet. 

Yes,  it  was  a  happy  time  ;  and  happy,  too, 
though  in  a  different  way,  was  the  long  quiet 
time  which  followed,  when,  under  the  Doc- 
tor's kind  care,  Berty  was  growing  better  and 
stronger  every  day,  and  learning  every  day 
to  love  more  and  more  dearly  the  pleasant 
room,  the  lively  prints  upon  the  walls,  the 
happy  little  sick  children,  the  gentle  nurses, 
the  good  rector  who  stopped  to  talk  with 
her  so  often,  and  the  dear,  dear  Dr.  John,  to 
whom  she  owed  it  all. 

The  Christmas-time  to  which  she  had 
looked  forward  in  her  dreary  attic  on  that 
dismal  night  —  how  far  away  the  attic 
seemed,  how  long  ago  the  night  —  was 
drawing  near,  was  close  at  hand.  Tim  told 
her  of  the  laurel- wreaths  which  they  were 
hanging  in  the  chapel.  Her  dearest  wish 
was  to  get  strong  enough  to  go  down  there 
with  Tim  and  keep  the  Christmas  feast, 
and  afterwards,  perhaps,  to  have  the  children 
come  to  her  again.  It  would  be  treat  enough 
for  them,  she  knew,  and  joy  enough  for  her  ; 
but  when  she  asked  the  Doctor,  she  got  no 
answer  but  a  smile. 


122  THE   WISH  FULFILLED. 

The  Doctor  was  so  busy  nowadays,  per- 
haps he  had  no  time  for  anything  but  smiles 
And  very  busy,  too,  was  little  Mary ;  it  was 
wonderful  what  a  deal  of  shopping  those  two 
found  it  necessary  to  do  together,  and  what 
piles  upon  piles  of  parcels,  of  all  shapes  and 
sizes,  they  brought  home  at  night,  and  stowed 
away  in  that  mysterious  parlor  which  no 
one  else  was  allowed  to  enter.  If  Polly  paid 
for  all  those  goods,  I  think  she  must  have 
made  a  requisition  upon  Dr.  John's  new- 
found pocket-book ;  for  I  am  sure  no  little 
girl's  purse  could  have  been  half  long  enough. 

But  at  last  there  came  a  day,  the  24th 
of  December  it  was,  when  Polly's  purchases 
seemed  to  be  all  made.  She  did  not  go 
down-town  at  all  that  day,  but  spent  all  the 
morning  closeted  with  Dr.  John  in  the  mys- 
terious room.  And,  altogether,  that  seemed 
to  be  quite  a  mysterious  day  at  Mrs.  Grey's ; 
for  all  day  long  there  came  such  mysterious 
noises  from  the  mysterious  parlor,  and  Mrs. 
Grey  and  the  housekeeper  and  Nurse  Evans 
went  about  with  such  mysterious  smiles 
upon  their  faces,  that  even  Jenny  and  Jemmy 
seemed  to  have  a  notion  that  something  was 


THE   WISH   FULFILLED.  123 

the  matter,  and  no  amount  of  coaxing  could 
keep  them  in  the  nursery.  Then,  towards 
evening,  there  came  a  mysterious  ring  at  the 
door,  and  a  mysterious  stranger  was  ushered 
in,  whose  arrival  seemed  to  fill  Dr.  Grey  and 
Mary  with  the  most  mysterious  surprise  and 
delight;  and  finally  the  Doctor  and  Tom 
took  the  carriage  and  went  off  upon  some 
mysterious  errand. 

If  you  could  have  peeped  into  the  hospital 
just  about  that  time,  you  would  have  seen 
that  the  mystery  had  penetrated  even  there ; 
for  Berty  sat,  wrapped  in  cloaks,  in  a  great 
arm-chair,  with  a  strangely  excited  expression 
upon  her  thin,  pale  face.  She  had  received 
that  morning  a  note,  in  a  little  white  en- 
velope, addressed  to  Fraulein  Bertha  Weisser. 
This  note  of  course  she  could  not  read,  but 
Mrs.  Gantz  read  it  for  her.  It  was  an  invi- 
tation, in  good  set  terms,  to  spend  the  even- 
ing with  Miss  Mary  Kendall,  at  her  grand- 
mother's house ;  and  accompanying  this  note 
was  a  new  dress  and  other  very  comfortable 
things  for  Berty  to  wear.  And  so  our  little 
Berty  sat  there,  very  happy  and  eager,  though 
a  little  frightened  and  shy,  waiting  for  the 
carriage. 


124  THE  WISH   FULFILLED. 

And  when  the  carriage  came,  and  Tom 
took  her  up  in  his  strong  arms  and  bore  her 
down  to  it,  a  new  surprise  was  waiting  for 
Berty ;  for  there  were  her  little  ones  all  peep- 
ing out  to  greet  her  with  shouts  of  delight. 
Berty  thought  this  was  all  that  was  needed 
to  make  her  perfectly  happy. 

Miss  Mary  received  them  with  a  joyous 
welcome,  and  kind  Mrs.  Grey  had  a  sofa 
ready  furnished  with  pillows  for  Berty  to 
rest  upon,  which  Dr.  John  insisted  that  she 
should  occupy  at  once,  though  she  did  not 
feel  in  the  least  tired. 

The  children  were  very  shy  at  first,  but 
Fritz  and  the  twins  soon  made  friends.  Tim 
took  upon  himself  to  entertain  Gottlieb,  and 
as  for  Rosa  and  Lina,  it  was  entertainment 
enough  for  them  to  look  about  them.  Berty 
wondered  at  Tim ;  he  seemed,  she  thought, 
quite  as  much  at  home  in  Mrs.  Grey's  hand- 
some house  as  at  Biddy  Flanagan's,  always 
the  same-  merry,  good-natured  fellow,  never 
shy,  and  never  too  forward ;  she  wondered, 
too,  at  her  little  ones,  so  clean  and  bright  and 
wholesome ;  and  when  she  heard  Fritzy's 
happy   laugh,   she    thought    this   was   even 


THE  WISH   FULFILLED.  125 

better  than  the  Christmas  tree  for  which 
she  had  longed. 

Presently,  little  Mary,  who  had  been  flitting 
in  and  out  in  a  most  extraordinary  manner, 
came  in  once  more,  and  made  a  significant 
motion  to  Dr.  Grey,  seeing  which,  the  Doctor, 
with  a  merry  look,  took  her  hand  and  led 
her  up  in  front  of  Berty's  couch. 

"  Berty,"  said  he,  "  you  were  wishing  for 
a  fairy  godmother,  I  hear.  Mrs.  Flanagan 
was  right  about  one  thing,  the  fairies  do  not 
emigrate  ;  but  she  was  wrong  about  the  other, 
for  there  is  a  tribe  of  them  in  America,  wild 
as  it  is  ;  and  as  fast  as  you  little  people  come 
over  they  adopt  you,  because  there  are  not 
Yankee  children  enough  to  keep  them  busy. 
So  you  see  everybody  has  a  fairy  god- 
mother, and  all  is  right.  Hearing,  from  Mrs. 
Flanagan,  that  you  were  in  need  of  yours,  I 
have  been  at  some  pains  to  find  her,  and 
here  she  is,  very  happy  to  make  your  ac- 
quaintance." 

Berty  was  quite  puzzled  by  this  speech, 
but  Polly  seemed  to  think  it  great  fun  ;  her 
eyes  fairly  danced  with  glee  as  she  dropped 
Berty  a  queer  little  courtesy,  and  said,  "  Dr. 


126  THE  WISH  FULFILLED. 

Grey  has  summoned  me,  and  I  have  come. 
You  were  wishing  for  a  Christmas  tree,  he 
tells  me.  Ah,  well ;  my  children  have  but  to 
wish,  and,  presto !  it  is  here  !  "  saying  which 
she  stamped  with  her  little  foot  upon  the 
floor,  and,  lo !  the  folding-doors  of  the  mys- 
terious parlor  glided  swiftly  back  and  dis- 
closed a  wondrous  sight,  —  a  Christmas  tree 
indeed,  whose  blazing  tapers  far  outshone 
those  which  had  lighted  Berty's  dreams, 
whose  graceful  branches  bent  beneath  their 
weight  of  generous  fruit!  While  the  chil- 
dren's eyes  were  still  dazzled  with  the  burst 
of  light,  Dr.  Grey  and  Mary  stepped  forward 
and  took  their  stations  on  either  side  the 
tree.  Then  Mary  turned  to  the  wondering 
children,  and  pointing  to  it,  said :  "  This, 
children,  is  Berty's  Christmas  Gift  to  her 
little  family." 

Berty  was  too  happy,  too  thankful  for 
words  ;  she  could  only  cast  a  grateful  look 
at  Dr.  John,  who,  she  felt  sure,  was  at  the 
bottom  of  it  somehow  ;  and  Dr.  John  looked 
back  at  her  with  a  merry  twinkle  in  his  eye, 
which  she  did  not  quite  understand.  The 
children,  meanwhile,  were  pressing  round  the 


THE  WISH  FULFILLED.  127 

tree,  and  devouring  it  with  eager,  wondering 
eyes. 

"  It  is  finer  than  the  Westermann's,  Lina," 
said  Gottlieb,  at  last. 

"  But  where  is  the  Christ-child,  Lieb  ?  " 
said  little  Rosa.     "  I  don't  see  him  at  all." 

"  But  he  is  here,  Rosa,"  said  Dr.  John. 
"  He  is  here,  though  you  do  not  see  him. 
It  is  he  who  put  it  into  the  heart  of  Berty's 
fairy  godmother  here  to  give  you  this  pleas- 
ure." 

"  Now,"  said  Mary,  who  seemed  somehow 
to  be  in  a  great  hurry,  "  if  you  have  gazed 
your  fill,  perhaps  you  would  like  me  to  gather 
you  some  fruit;"  and  she  took  a  long,  hooked 
stick  which  leaned  against  the  wall  beside 
her,  and  began  to  take  off  the  presents  from 
the  tree. 

I  shall  not  trouble  myself  to  describe  those 
presents.  Christmas  trees,  I  am  happy  to 
say,  are  getting  very  common.  A  bountiful 
crop  of  them  springs  up  every  year  all  over 
the  land,  and  I  dare  say  there  are  none  of 
you  who  have  not  assisted  in  stripping  at 
least  one.  So  I  shall  only  tell  you  that  every 
one  of  the  children  got  a  very  satisfactory 


128  THE   WISH  FULFILLED. 

share  of  the  magical  fruit,  —  every  one  ex- 
cept Berty.  Strange  to  say  there  seemed  to 
be  no  present  for  Berty.  She  never  thought 
of  wishing  for  one;  it  was  all  just  as  she 
had  planned  it  herself,  and  she  was  heartily 
satisfied ;  but  so  were  not  the  others.  Tim 
especially,  who  had  gotten  a  bountiful  share 
himself,  was  greatly  concerned  about  Berty ; 
and.  at  last,  when  the  branches  were  nearly 
bare,  and  nothing  was  yet  forthcoming,  he 
bethought  himself  of  speaking  to  Dr.  Grey. 
It  might  have  been  forgotten,  though  Tim 
did  not  see  how  that  could  be.  At  any  rate, 
he  knew  Dr.  John  would  never  be  content  to 
have  Berty  neglected,  any  more  than  he.  So 
he  made  his  way  through  the  children  to 
where  the  Doctor  still  stood  beside  the  tree. 

"  Dr.  Grey,"  he  whispered,  ';  has  Miss  Mary 
forgotten  Berty,  d'ye  think  —  or  what  ?  " 

"  Berty !  "  cried  the  Doctor,  speaking  very 
loud,  and  pretending  to  be  quite  astonished. 
"  Sure  enough  !  the  tree  is  quite  stripped,  and 
Berty  has  nothing !  That's  a  great  oversight 
of  yours,  my  good  fairy ;  it  will  never  do  at 
all.  Couldn't  you  manage  to  spirit  us  in  a 
present  for  Berty  yet  ?  " 


THE   WISH   FULFILLED.  129 

"  What  shall  it  be  ?  "  asked  Mary,  paying 
no  attention  to  Berty's  exclamations  and 
assurances  that  the  tree  itself  was  present 
enough  for  her. 

"  Since  you  have  kept  her  waiting  so  long," 
said  the  Doctor,  "  I  think  it  should  be  some- 
thing very  nice,  —  something,  for  instance, 
from  over  the  sea." 

Mary  nodded,  and,  tapping  her  stick  three 
times  upon  the  floor,  sang,  in  a  queer  little 
piping  voice,  which  made  all  the  children 
laugh,  — 

"  Come,  fairies,  good  fairies,  bring  swiftly  to  me 
A  present  for  Berty  from  over  the  sea!  " 

Then  s,he  stood  quite  still  for  a  moment, 
and  looked  towards  the  door,  as  if  expecting 
some  one;  and  at  last  nodded  and  waved  her 
hand,  and,  dropping  a  courtesy  to  the  Doctor, 
said,  "  My  good  Doctor,  your  bidding  is  done. 
You  will  find  a  present  for  Berty  there  at 
your  right  hand.  If  my  elves  have  been 
somewhat  dilatory,  you  must  excuse  them ; 
for  the  package,  you  perceive,  was  rather 
heavy." 

The  Doctor  sprang  quickly  aside,  and,  sure 
enough,  there  at  his  right  hand,  half  hidden 

9 


130  THE  WISH  FULFILLED. 

by  the  spreading  branches,  was  a  heavy- 
oaken  chest,  strongly  bound  with  iron,  which 
everybody  stared  at  as  if  it  had  fallen  from 
the  sky.  % 

"  Upon  me  word,  Miss  Mary,"  said  Tim, 
"  if  ye'd  hire  out  yer  elves  down  at  the  docks 
there,  ye'd  make  yer  fortin  in  no  time. 
They're  stronger  than  any  derrick  they  have 
there,  certain  sure." 

"  Well,  Tim,"  answered  Polly,  laughing, 
"  I'll  think  of  it." 

"  Somebody'll  have  to  open  it  for  Bert," 
said  prudent  Gottlieb,  looking  appealingly  to 
Dr.  John  ;  "  she  never  can." 

"Sure  enough.  Shall  we  want  a  hammer, 
think  you,  or  is  it  locked  ?  "  said  Dr.  Grey, 
bending  over  the  chest  with  a  puzzled  look. 
"  Ah,  yes,  here's  a  lock,"  he  added,  fumbling 
at  the  side  towards  the  wall.  "  Have  your 
elves  brought  the  key,  Madam  Fairy  ?  " 

Polly  fumbled  in  her  pocket  a  little,  and 
brought  out  a  huge  bunch  of  keys,  one  of 
which  Dr.  John,  with  great  jingling,  applied 
to  the  lock.  Tim  had  a  shrewd  suspicion 
that  the  chest  was  not  locked  at  all,  nor  even 
fairly   closed ;    but,   before    he   had  time   to 


THE  WISH  FULFILLED.  131 

assure  himself  by  nearer  inspection,  the  cover 
flew  up  with  a  bang,  and  out  sprang  —  what  ? 
A  genie  ?  All  the  children  thought  so  at 
first,  and  shrank  away,  while  Berty  covered 
her  eyes  with  her  hands. 

But  the  strange  being,  whatever  it  was, 
went  straight  to  Berty's  couch,  and  bending 
down,  whispered  some  German  words  close 
in  her  ear.  Berty  could  not  help  peeping  out 
between  her  fingers.  Surely,  it  was  no  genie. 
Would  a  genie  call  her  his  darling,  his  god- 
daughter, his  dear,  dear  child?  Would  a 
genie  look  at  her  with  blue  eyes  so  like  her 
mother's  ?  Ah  no,  this  was  no  genie,  though 
he  had  come  to  her  as  strangely  as  any  genie 
could.  It  was,  it  could  be,  no  one  in  the 
world  but  the  dear,  dear  uncle  Gottlieb,  from 
the  blessed  old  Fatherland.. 

So  Berty  let  the  stranger  take  her  in  his 
arms,  and  gave  him  kiss  for  kiss,  and  an- 
swered his  caresses  with  her  own,  and  called 
the  children  to  her,  one  by  one,  to  show  this 
dear  uncle  who  had  come  so  far  to  see  them 
all.  It  was  so  sweet  to  little  Berty  to  feel 
that  strong  arm  round  her,  and  to  know  that 
it  was  ready  to  shield  her  from  all  care  and 


132  THE  WISH  FULFILLED. 

harm ;  it  was  so  sweet  to  hear  him  call  her 
children  his,  and  to  know  that  he  would  care 
for  them  as  she,  with  all  her  efforts,  never 
could  have  done. 

Yes,  it  was  uncle  Gottlieb,  to  whom  Dr. 
Grey  had  written  as  soon  as  he  heard  of  him 
from  Berty,  and  who,  hearing  thus,  for  the 
first  time,  of  his  sister's  death,  (for  Madame 
Hansmann's  letter  had  miscarried,)  had  has- 
tened to  the  orphans,  and  arrived  just  in  time 
to  be  put  into  Polly's  strong  box.  He  had 
entered  heartily  into  the  joke,  though  he  de- 
clared that  he  had  nearly  smothered  in  carry- 
ing it  out;  and  Dr.  John  averred  that  he  had 
chuckled  so  much  as  nearly  to  discover  him- 
self to  the  children  before  the  time.  Polly 
produced  from  the  chest  a  whole  bundle  of 
presents  for  Berty,  which  she  had  hidden 
there  the  better  to  carry  out  her  scheme ; 
but,  though  Berty  was  properly  grateful,  it 
was  easy  to  see  that  uncle  Gottlieb's  niece 
thought  him  the  best  present  of  all.  There 
is  no  need  that  I  should  tell  you  they  spent 
a  merry  evening,  —  what  could  prevent  them  ? 
Uncle  Gottlieb  informed  them  next  morning, 
for  they  all  spent  the  night  with  hospitable 


THE  WISH  FULFILLED.  133 

Mrs.  Grey,  that  he  had  risen  in  the  world, — . 
become  a  composer  of  music  and  leader  of 
the  band ;  and  also  that  some  old  relative  in 
Frankfort  had  left  him  a  little  house.  He 
had  been  thinking,  he  said,  of  getting  a  wife 
to  keep  house  for  him ;  but  he  should  take 
the  children  all  back  with  him,  and  Berty 
should  keep  house :  it  would  be  much  bet- 
ter, and  leave  him  more  time  for  his  music. 

And  so  Berty  and  her  little  ones  went 
back  to  the  dear  Fatherland.  It  was  hard 
parting  from  the  Doctor  and  Mary  and  Tim ; 
but  Dr.  Grey  promised  to  bring  Mary  to  see 
them  at  Frankfort,  which  promise  he  has 
kept.  And  as  for  Tim,  I  have  a  shrewd  sus- 
picion that  that  young  gentleman  has  by  this 
time  paid  uncle  Gottlieb  off  in  his  own  coin, 
and  taken  Berty  another  sea-voyage ;  but 
then  Lina  must  be  quite  big  enough  for  a 
housekeeper  now. 


